The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

I first met Maggie at a fountain. I was babysitting, and had to clarify that the children running wild IN the fountain setting a terrible example for all the other children were, in fact, not mine.

Little did I know Maggie was the same woman I had heard screaming in our complex days earlier. Something about “Fuck you, you cunt” and “I’ve got your panties.” All very disturbing at 2AM. Okay, disturbing at any hour.

It didn’t take long for Maggie to spill all the intimate details of her existence. The humiliating details. Losing the big house…going on welfare…moving into her son’s one bedroom apartment. She talked about her daughters—Autumn, Apple, Angel, and the difficulty of storing her angel art installations without a garage. She obsessed about her supposed weight gain, her addiction to cigarettes, and her friendless void.

Not to mention she was constantly having run-ins with the police. One time she caused a ruckus at Starbucks and ended up being put in jail overnight. (Or this is what I was able to make out.) With no money, she walked the ten miles home. In flip-flops.

No one would help her.

But then Maggie isn’t the kind of person you’re dying to help. She makes people uncomfortable. She has no censor. “You’re getting really big, Rebecca! Are you sure you’re not having twins?” Laugh, laugh. “Yeah, Maggie!”

One night we came home and there was a lot of bustling around her apartment. We found out her son had been killed in a train accident. I went over to offer my condolences, witness to the strangest expression of grief. Or at least the most raw. Everyone was silent except for Maggie. She couldn’t stop babbling: “He was such a good boy. Still a virgin you know. The girls were lining up today…such a good boy.” All the talk interspersed with apologies for the can of beer she was waving. Her daughters silent. Wiping tears. Her husband, Jeff, standing apart, his arms around Angel.

The morning after was particularly weird. What do you say to people who have experienced such a tragedy? How do you act in the face of deteriorating humanity?

Lately, Jeff is looking more and more like a bush man. He stands outside the apartment smoking and looking at the pavement. He looks up just as we drive by to wave. Always forcing a big grin.

I knew something was up the night we came home to find Maggie busily sweeping up the glass littered around their truck—presumably the glass from the windshield she had shattered a few days earlier. (With our sleuth-like perception, Si and I had determined that she had whacked the windshield with a beer bottle approximately sixty times. The effect was very dramatic.) She didn’t acknowledge us, a sure sign that something was brewing…Sure enough, a few minutes later, we hear Maggie bellowing: “I want my son. I want my son. They murdered my son…” Then, “Shut the fuck up!” Then, “Come and get me you fucking cunt…I’m not afraid of you…I want my son…!!!!” A call and answer between Maggie and angry neighbors.

I peeked out of our blinds and debated. She was definitely drunk. And I didn’t want her to pull a knife on me or something…but ultimately decided Maggie was pretty harmless. More just really, really sad. Grieving a dead son and a lonely existence with too much alcohol in her system. In need of compassion. Not so much the incensed jeering of neighbors.

“Rebecca,” she cried out. “I thought you had left me. I thought you had abandoned me.” She grabbed me and started kissing me. Touching my belly. “You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I thought you had abandoned me. I have no friends. Everybody hates me.”

“People don’t hate you, Maggie,” I tried to reassure. “I think people just get a little afraid when you start yelling.”

“Am I that loud, Rebecca?”

“You’re a little loud…”

We laughed.

A good moment out there in the parking lot. Preggo Becca and crazy Maggie…beginning to calm down. Kissing me at random intervals.

Apparently, Simon was listening the whole time from the bedroom window. On guard.

Ever since that day Maggie’s been a little distant. I think she’s embarrassed. And I’m too preoccupied with my belly to put her at ease. What do you do with the tragedy of others? Maggie’s grief? Cause she’s still sad. And I still care. I’m just…

I don’t even know.