A Lady Under Siege(33)
She dressed quickly and hurried back down to the kitchen. There was no one there and the pane had already been replaced in the back door. Through the window she could see Derek pulling nails from the fence planks with a hammer, while Betsy, still in her pyjamas, was bouncing on the trampoline, landing on her feet one time, her bum the next. They were happily chattering to each other like old pals. Meghan opened the door and stepped out onto the deck.
“What the hell do unicorns need a horn for anyway?” Derek was asking. “Narwhals are the only other mammal with a big pointy pole sticking straight out their foreheads, and they use theirs, to dig up food from the sea bottom, but a unicorn eats grass like a horse, does he not? A horn’s only going be a nuisance in that case, getting in the way all the time.”
“They need the horns to defend themselves,” Betsy replied.
“From who?”
“Lions and tigers and things.”
“Your unicorns have wings—they’re not going to stand around poking their head at a bunch of hungry lions, they’d fly away.”
“They do have wings, you’re right.” Betsy slowed her trampoline act so she could examine her pyjamas, which were covered with supercute My-Little-Pony-style cartoon unicorns, with manes like the hairdos of homecoming queens. “A Pegasus is a horse with wings.”
“Those are Pegacorns,” Derek proclaimed. “Those are some clever marketer’s idea of what six year old girls want to cuddle up with.”
“I’m not six, I’m ten,” Betsy protested.
“Doesn’t matter. You were hooked at six. Or three. Now they’ve got you for life. At ninety-three you’ll be dusting your little glass menagerie of crystal unicorns and porcelain Pegasuses, or would that be Pegasi? My own dear mother treasures a shelf of little glass birdies in her nursing home, I swear on a stack of Bibles. They’re her best friends, I’d say.”
Betsy finally noticed her own mother, standing on the deck. “Mom,” she called. “Derek says unicorns are a crock.”
“Don’t lie,” Derek scolded her. “It’s most unbecoming in a child. I said no such thing.”
“You did!”
“I never used the word crock. They’re mythical beasts, myths are never a crock. They’re beyond that, like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy.”
Meghan came down into the garden. “Time you got out of those unicorns anyway,” she said. “Go get dressed. And then, my dear, I think it’s practice time on the piano.”
“Really? You haven’t made me practice it in weeks.”
“Exactly.”
Betsy attempted a cartwheel on the grass. Her form was excellent, a perfect whirling swirl of a circle that brought her to a standing stop in front of her mother. She beamed up at her. “I’m getting good,” she squealed happily.
“Practice makes perfect,” said Meghan. “Same for the piano.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Betsy said, holding up her bandaged finger.
“If you can do cartwheels on that hand, you can play a piano. Anyway, your pjs will get all grass-stained if you’re not careful,” Meghan said. “Go get changed.”
“In a bit.”
“Betsy, I need to talk to Derek. Alone.”
Derek set his hammer down. “Sounds ominous,” he said.
“Is it about me?” Betsy asked.
“No.”
“If it’s about me, I have a right to listen,” she insisted.
“It’s not about you.”
“Is it about your dreams?”
“Possibly.”
“Mommy has strange dreams,” Betsy said to Derek.
“So you mentioned,” he answered. “She’s lucky to remember them. I never do. Or maybe I’m the lucky one, I guess it depends on the dreams.”
“Hers are really strange—”
“Betsy,” her mother cut her short. “Go inside, get dressed, and I want to hear that piano for a good half hour before I see your face out here again.”
“You don’t have to yell,” said Betsy.
“I wasn’t yelling.”
“It’s most unbecoming in a mother.” She smiled at Derek, expecting him to appreciate what she thought was a splendidly clever echo of a phrase he’d just used himself, but he was looking down around his feet for a can of beer he’d set there. He picked it up and drained the last remaining dribble. “Just let me grab another, be right back.” That left Betsy alone under her mother’s withering glare. She slunk into the house.