Madison Mosby and the Rose Widow Page 2

  “Hell no.” Mr. Fleming’s face creased into a smile. “Did you bring the appetizers?”

  Madison pulled a bag of peanut M&Ms from her jacket and presented it with a shake. To her relief, the door opened, and Mr. Fleming waved her in.

  He was a small man, with a hump for a back and a tiny halo of white hair around his liver-spotted head. He ambled into the apartment with the aid of a cane, stopping to pull his brown cardigan back up over his narrow shoulders, the same way a woman fixes a runaway purse strap.

  The studio apartment was small and sparsely furnished. A large wooden console TV took up most of the living room. It was playing a black and white war movie. Across from it, sat a weathered recliner with plaid fabric and a black leather wingback chair. Off to the right was a kitchenette, where the tiny counter hosted a mountain of prescription drug bottles and a table with two folding chairs. Towards the back of the room was a neatly-made bed and a squat dresser. The door to the bathroom was two steps from the bed.

  “What did they send today?” asked Mr. Fleming as he turned towards his plaid chair.

  Madison followed him in, making her way to the kitchenette. She dropped the bags onto the small table and rifled through them. She produced a tan microwave safe container. The one she’d picked up from the Trinity Sisters kitchen an hour ago.

  “Tofu stir-fry, chocolate raspberry flavored Ensure, and a lime Jell-O cup.”

  She studied the container. The stir-fry slid from one side to the other, like mud down a hill. The Sky Garden customers wouldn’t even eat it, she reasoned. The Sisters did the best they could with what was donated or begrudgingly provided by the county, but usually it was little better than spoiled airline food. The recipients were usually too far gone to put up a protest. Most, like Mr. Fleming, were just happy to see someone come visit them rather than complain about the food.

  “God,” Mr. Fleming exclaimed. “They want me to die, don’t they?” He waddled over to his chair and fell into it with a huff, followed by a series of deep breaths. He closed his eyes. “Please tell me you brought something worth the trip to the door.”

  Goddamn right I did. Madison tossed the tofu into the proper receptacle, the trash, and pulled out her offering.

  “Chili, with no beans this time.”

  “Angel.” He paused, waiting to see if she’d gone the extra mile like last time.

  She let him wait just a moment while she pulled out what he really wanted: a six-pack of Budweiser. She opened a can. “Want me to put these in the fridge?”

  “God no. Cold beer is for sissies,” he growled. “Gonna put a perfectly good beer in the fridge, numb my taste buds to sleep.”

  Madison walked the beer over to him along with the M&Ms. He took them with a huge smile and patted her hand.

  “You still didn’t answer my question,” he said. “I thought you were done with all this. You were so happy that I was your last stop last week.”

  Madison thought about lying to him, telling him that the new person assigned to him was sick, but he had the kind of gentle eyes that pulled the truth out of her. “I couldn’t stand the idea of you eating this stuff. And,” she paused. Just fucking tell him. “I kind of like watching movies with you. And you remind me of my grandfather.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Well, at least what people told me about him.”

  If she thought about it long enough, Madison also liked the fact that Mr. Fleming hadn’t said one judgmental thing about her the dozen or so times she’d brought him dinner. He didn’t go on like the other hospice patients had about this terrible son or that ungrateful granddaughter. He just smiled and listened, occasionally offering advice, but careful not to be overly critical.

  Through their conversations, Madison had learned that he had a few family members who came to see him, but his son and daughter were dead from the same cancer that was killing him. He’d told her once, but she’d forgotten what it was called. He had four or five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, but the closest relative was in Minneapolis.

  Mr. Fleming flashed an evil grin. “What’ll it be tonight?” He pointed to a stack of VHS tapes on the top of the TV. Most were old action movies: Lethal Weapon, Raw Deal, Death Wish 3, amongst others.

  “Oh, none of those,” said Madison. She retrieved her last surprise from the bag, the package she’d been waiting for last night, and stepped back over to him. “How about Terminator and Terminator 2.” She held up the double VHS box set for him to see. She’d gotten lucky on Amazon last week. Mr. Fleming’s top loader VCR made finding him new movies a challenge, but hunting for treasures online was one of her specialties.

  “I never got to see those,” he said. “Are they any good?”

  “Yeah. They’re awesome.”

  Madison popped in Terminator before going back to her bag and throwing the chili into the microwave to heat up.

  “What’s a young girl like with action movies anyway,” Mr. Fleming called back to her.

  Madison thought for a moment as she stirred the chili bowl and returned it to the microwave. It wasn’t like she loved all action movies. “I guess I like the characters. Strong characters make for a good movie, doesn’t matter what’s going on.”

  “Arnold’s naked!” Mr. Fleming shouted.

  Yes, they have to be naked when they travel back in time. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over in a minute.”

  Madison set up Mr. Fleming’s TV tray and returned with the chili. They sat and quietly ate until Arnold started killing Sarah Connors.

  “How’s your family?” he asked.

  “The same. Mother is insane. Sisters are…insane in their own way. My boyfriend is still there but not there.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s great, but he’s never around. He works too much. I work. So, we hardly get to see each other.”

  “That’s too bad. He sounds like a keeper though.”

  “He is. I just don’t know if he wants to keep me.”

  “Huh,” he said pensively. “Why do you say that? You’re pretty and smart. Hell of a good cook, too.” He paused and thought about what he said. “I don’t mean you should stay home and cook all day…I mean…well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” Madison thought for a moment. “I get a ton of money if I marry him, like a lot of money.”

  “Oh, he’s rich?” Mr. Fleming kept his eyes on the TV as he spooned chili into his mouth. “Take what you can get in life. If he loves you, you love him, all the better.”

  “No, I have a trust fund. My grandmother set it up for me and my sisters as a kind of way to get us to get married and start a family.”

  The dreaded trust fund. The gold plated carrot of Madison’s life. Get married, inherit millions. Have kids, get another pile of cash. Stay married through the kid’s eighteenth birthday and get the last pile.

  “Mmm, free money isn’t always free.”

  Madison agreed with that. More than a few things had gone wrong for her sister, Dana, when she’d tried to get her trust fund.

  “That what you want, a family?” Mr. Fleming finally turned to look at Madison. “You know you’re never ready for that kind of thing. Kids come along and you become a person you never thought possible. Just happens, switch gets thrown and you go into married-with-kids mode.” He sat up straight and raised a finger. “And I’ve seen plenty of the ones think they have it all figured out, ready to settle down and have kids and the whole thing blows up in their face; divorce, infertility, infidelity.”

  I can’t be a mom. Madison the drunk, Madison the drug dealer, Madison the unemployable wasn’t fit to tell someone when it was bedtime or help them with their homework. I’m not good enough. She found herself looking down at her empty chili bowl.

  “I’m not a good enough person.” It felt so good to just say that to someone. Madison didn’t really think she was a bad person, she just…could do better. She could slow down on the drinking. She could start giving more of a shit with Reese
. Maybe even take some initiative with work and show she wanted to keep her job instead of just coasting. Sky Garden was a shit restaurant, but it was a job that could lead to something bigger if she had a better attitude.

  “Well at least you’re honest with yourself. But you shouldn’t beat yourself up.”

  “I don’t mean I’m a bad person. I’m just not good enough to be a good wife or mother. I just need to get my shit together, that’s all.”

  “Well what’s that going to take?” He placed his empty beer can on the tray.

  That was obvious. “Money.” Hearing the sound of the empty beer can, Madison got up to get him another.

  “You in debt like everyone else in the world?” Mr. Fleming shouted back to the kitchen.

  Madison returned with two beers. She needed one now. Shit, she’d needed one since noon. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m drowning.” She’d stopped adding up her debt a few months ago. Looking at the total number was too depressing. Thinking about it now was too depressing. Way more depressing for the paltry amount of alcohol in the place. She’d need a fifth of vodka to look at that number again.

  The sound of the tape rewinding caught their attention. The movie was over.

  “Did the blonde girl get away?” Mr. Fleming asked. He’d been too involved with talking to Madison to see if the Terminator had killed Sarah Connor.

  “I’m not spoiling it for you.”

  “You’ve got to take what you want from the world, Madison.”

  “Huh?” The statement jarred her out of thinking about her mountain of debt and the fucked-up solution staring right at her, the trust fund. Why did that have to be her only option?

  “I’m ninety-one years old. I’ve seen this country go from a place where a man could support a family by himself, have two cars, and maybe afford a cabin on the lake for vacations, to a place where both parents have to work their asses off, just to make ends meet.”

  How did Mr. Fleming know so much about the real world? He sat in his chair all day, watching movies from thirty years ago. Maybe he read the paper. Maybe someone came in here every day and gave him a ‘real world’ briefing.

  “You,” he continued, “aren’t going to make it in life, make it to a place where you feel safe having a family – and let me tell you they are worth it – until you go out and take what’s yours.”

  Madison wanted to lunge at him with a hug. Everyone else around her always just told her to follow the rules and be a better Madison. Mr. Fleming was telling her to go out and kick some ass. How the fuck was she going to do that, she didn’t know. It was moments like this that she was glad she threw that bottle and tried to run from the cops. She resolved herself to keep checking in on him.

  Without a word, she got up and swapped out the tapes. She looked at him. He didn’t need her confirmation that he was right. She just smirked in the way a person says, You’re right and pressed play.

  Chapter 3

  “[Nancy Mosby] was a vulgar, quarrelsome little girl, always more concerned with leading boys off on her little adventures in the desert or the mountains, or the forest, wherever we happened to live at the time, than her studies. She had that bewitching power over them. I think they loved her because she was fearless. And, her father never once protested. He’d just smile and go off to the base or the officer’s club. It’s a miracle her sins didn’t take her before the age of twelve.”

  -Sister Agnes DeMato

  Governess to Major General T. Donald Mosby III

  Excerpt from Rosebud Diaries - The Early Years of Nancy Mosby ©1983

  ***

  The next evening, at the end of the shift, Madison eyed the half empty wine glasses sitting in the bus pan. She was mesmerized by house Merlots and Zinfandels as they twinkled in the kitchen’s fluorescent lights. They swirled each time another dingy bus pan was thrown onto the counter for Raul to send through the dishwasher. Each glass would be upended, spilling that liquid calm into a swill of crusts, ketchup, limp salad, and thin, melted ice cubes.

  The dinner shift had ended twenty minutes ago. Mops flopped against the kitchen tiles and the final dishes were making their way through the washers.

  A group of underpaid, tired, smelly stiffs just waiting for the only reason they had endured two more weeks as siblings in the “Sky Garden Family Buffet” family.

  “Mother fucker, always taking his time. I need to get home and see the end of the game,” Lucas said.

  “What for? The Jets are already down fourteen points,” said Renee. She sucked her teeth as she looked at her phone.

  “Lucas,” said Omar, “you not going to see Johnny D?”

  “Man, please. To hell with that dude,” Lucas shot back.

  Everyone looked at their phones. Madison stole glances at half empty wine glasses as they inched towards to the washer on the conveyor belt. Like James Bond trapped in the overly elaborate, yet somehow easily escapable death trap. She wanted to save them. Give each unwanted drop a safe place to spend the night, her stomach.

  There were too many people however, and even though the glowing screens in people’s hands were probably enough to hold their attention, Madison didn’t want to risk becoming that weird cook who drank wine out of the bus pans.

  “Okay folks, sorry for the delay,” said Jacob. He held a neat stack of envelopes, bound with a rubber band in the middle.

  “Jenny, solid work on moving the Lobster nachos tonight. That was a big help,” he said with an exaggerated smile. “And I need everyone to remember, Mr. Lewis Jennings will be here from the regional office next week for the annual inspection. So let’s make sure to show him how great Arlington’s Sky Garden is.”

  Everyone glared at Jacob.

  “Right, yes, of course. Here we go,” said Jacob, as he held up the checks. He always went in alphabetical order.

  “Anderson, Jenny,” Jacob recited. He went through the roster. One, by one the staff trudged forward to take their paychecks. Some opened them and groaned. Others just stuffed them into a pocket, next to a wad of tips.

  “Mosby, Madison,” Jacob droned, not bothering to look up.

  Madison took the outstretched envelope. Her heart fluttered as she mulled over the stack of bills on her kitchen counter, phone, rent, car payment, Mastercard, Visa card, Target card, emergency Amex card. She had been doing the math in her head for the last two days. She had just enough to make most of the minimum credit payments and her car payment. Rent could wait until the next check, and the Target people could keep calling her until they were blue in the face, she’d pay them when she got around to it. She’d call her friend Don tomorrow and see if he had any catering gigs coming up.

  Madison ripped open her envelope as she stepped aside for “Nelson, Tom.” Her heart sank. Her check was off by two hundred dollars. She gasped. What the hell?

  “Jacob?”

  “Yes?” he said with his eyebrows raised. He pushed his glasses up to the top of his nose.

  “My check’s off.” She handed it to him.

  He scanned the numbers. “No it’s not,” he said. “Remember this is a short pay period and you took off two days at the start, when Ronnie covered for you. You were sick, or something. Remember? Plus, if you’d come back to working Wednesday nights, you’d have a few more hours.”

  No way. I’m not skipping dinner with Mr. Fleming.

  Madison stifled a loud curse. She had forgotten about taking those days off, she’d subbed for Don’s head chef at that wedding. He’d paid her in cash, three hundred dollars, which was now gone after some good booze and poor decisions on Amazon.com.

  “Oh, right,” she said, trying to look confident. “I forgot all about that.”

  She wanted to punch the wall, punch anything, punch Jacob. But it wasn’t his fault. He was a decent enough manager. He must have smelled rum on her breath a dozen times and said nothing. He didn’t hit on her. He’d let her pick up extra shifts when people called out sick, which was frequent in the chain restaurant business. Madison tried to calm h
erself, but couldn’t. She needed a drink right-goddamn-now.

  She took the check back and plunged it in her purse. “Thanks Jacob, have a good night.” Her throat tightened and Madison felt the tears coming. The weight of debt started to press on her shoulders. Once again, she’d screwed up. Once again she would have to figure something out. She had $400 left on her emergency Amex, but she could use that to make her car payment and reload the fridge for the next few weeks. Anything not to have to borrow money from her older sister Shelby or her boyfriend Reese or god forbid Helen Cross, a.k.a. Mom.

  As she walked towards her car, Madison imagined the call to ask Mom for money again. “Did you get fired again?” her mom would ask. “Maddy, sweetie, what was it this time?” Then she would add in a whisper, “were you drinking again?”

  No, never again. Madison tried to end the conversation in head but she couldn’t. It was as if her mother was right in front of her.

  “Maybe if you budgeted your money better, Madison. Didn’t you learn anything in college?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mom, they don’t teach you how to live while riding the poverty line.”

  “Shelby managed to do well for herself.”

  Shelby, the dynamo supermom, the battered trump card in so many arguments.

  “Madison Jane Mosby, why do you have to make life so hard?” Mom would say. “Just find a sweet boy, marry him and give me some grandkids, and then everything will work out for you. Then...” Mom would let the silence hang in front of them, as if she needed Madison to say it, needed it like a baby needs milk, “you get your trust fund.”

  Madison pulled herself out of the clouds at the sound of her phone’s text notification. Time slowed around her, as the servers and kitchen staff darted to their cars or the Metro stations. Most were yelling for rides over to Johnny D’s party.

  The parking lot dimmed as Sky Garden’s lights flickered off for the night, replaced by car break lights, turning the scene into a forest of roaming shadows. She scrolled through the texts she’d missed while on shift. Her younger sister Dana was first on the list, followed by her older sister, Shelby.