Chapter 12 Section Eleven

Margo threw the books and documents on the sofa and looked at the wall clock above the TV: a quarter past ten.She shook her head.Today was unbelievable and terrible.I stayed for several hours, but only three paragraphs were added to the paper.And I have to help Moriarty organize the manuscripts in the showcase.She sighed, regretting that she would agree to participate in that project. Across the street was a liquor store, and reflected neon light squeezed into the living room's only window, coating the room in an electric blue.She turned on the dim overhead light, leaned against the door, and slowly scanned the chaotic scene.She is usually a little too tidy.But after just a week of neglect, textbooks, tribute letters, legal documents, shoes and undershirts littered the furniture.The empty cartons from the Chinese restaurant downstairs were placed in the sink, long forgotten by her. Old Royal typewriters and academic papers spread out on the hardwood floor.

She lived on Amsterdam Avenue, which had not yet been penetrated by the middle class, a sleazy neighborhood that was one of the reasons why her father insisted that she should return to Boston. "This isn't a place for a girl like you, little mosquito," he called Margo by her childhood nickname, "and a museum isn't the place for you to work. Day after day guarding dead taxidermy animals, releasing Weird things in glass jars. What kind of life is that? Come back and work for me. Get you a house in Beverly, Marblehead too. You'll be happier in Marblehead, little mosquito, I Knew you would."

Margo noticed the light on the answering machine blinking and went over to press the message button. "It's me, Jan," said the first message. "I was back in town today and just heard the news. I'm so sorry to hear about your father's death. Call you later, okay? I want to talk to you. Goodbye." She waits.There was another voice: "Margo, it's me, Mom." Then there was a click. She closed her eyes tightly, paused for a few seconds, and took a deep breath.She wasn't going to call Jan, at least not yet.Nor will mother be called back; at least not until tomorrow.She knew what her mother was trying to say: You must go home and carry on in your father's footsteps.He wants you to do that.This is your duty to us.

Margo turned around and sat cross-legged in front of the typewriter, staring at the tutor's annotations, catalog data and the registration list provided by Moriarty.Moriarty said the deadline was the day after tomorrow, and the next chapter of the paper was due next Monday. She stared at the various papers for a minute or two, gathering her thoughts, and then began typing.After a few minutes, she stopped and looked into the dimly lit room.She remembered how her father used to make omelettes on Sunday mornings—that was all he could do. "Hey, little mosquito," he always said, "isn't the old bachelor not bad at his craft?"

The shop is closed and some of the lights outside are out.Looking out of the room, Margot saw graffiti on the walls and boarded up windows.Maybe my father was right: being poor isn't that interesting. poverty.She shook her head, remembering the last time she heard the word, and her mother's expression when she spoke.Sitting with her mother in the cold, dark office of her father's executor, she listened to all kinds of complicated reasons: unless a family member came forward to continue the business, the company would be shut down because of the debt-to-equity ratio and the lack of estate planning. Forced to liquidate.

She thought about the parents of the two little boys.They must have had high hopes for their children too, and now they will never be disappointed, but they will never be happy either.Her thoughts then turned to Plaine, and the blood on his shoe. She got up and turned on more lights.It's time for dinner.Tomorrow she was shutting herself in her office to finish the paper, helping Moriarty flesh out the article on Cameroon artifacts.Postpone the date of the decision - at least one more day.She swore to herself that she would make up her mind before meeting Flock next week. The bell rang.She involuntarily picked up the receiver.

"Hello," she said, and listened for a few seconds, "Oh, hello, Mom."