Chapter 57

We’re learning Tango Nuevo tonight. Silvio told us last week it combines the Argentine embrace with American hip-rubbing. All Mary needs is more hip-rubbing. She called Margot earlier, wishing her luck at the protest rally. Ruby’s taking a video camera.

We get to the dance studio early, practicing our steps. Then everyone arrives and we start to Tango Nuevo. It’s all grinding as far as I’m concerned. Muller finds it easy. The steps come naturally to him, the step, the glide, and the dip. By the time Silvio claps his hands, telling us that’s it for the night, I’m sweating like a bastard.

Mary calls Margot when we get home. “Turn on the television,” Mary calls out. “Margot’s on the news.”

The announcer is describing the scene of mayhem earlier. “Things got out of hand outside City Hall earlier this evening when Margot Simmons, star of Reality Check, a big hit on the web, showed up as a main speaker. Known for her ‘take no prisoners’ style, Simmons wasted little time giving everybody a healthy dose of reality.”

The camera zooms in on Margot standing at a podium. “I’m not supporting anybody here,” Margot says. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re all a bunch of ninnies. In my day, you took your baby in the washroom if you wanted to breastfeed. Why are you dangling your knockers out in the open, anyway?” Boos erupt. Placards bump into each other.

“Oh, get off your high horses,” Margot says. One of the feminists starts shouting, “Subjugation! Subjugation! We won’t be denied our rights!”

“Young lady,” Margot shouts back, “someone needs to subjugate you. Tits belong in your blouses, girls. That’s not subjugation; it’s called decency. Why don’t you fight for something worthwhile? Like daycare. The mayor’s doing diddley in that department.”

They cut back to the announcer, a stiff little blonde. “Well, you can’t say Margot Simmons doesn’t speak her mind.”

Mary’s still on the phone. Muller goes around the channels, finding similar updates. Then there’s the mayor, caught walking to his car. “What do you think of Margot Simmons?” the reporter asks. “Have you seen or heard her show?”

“Haven’t, no.”

He’s whisked away as the feminists chant in the background. A woman keeps asking Margot what she knows about breastfeeding. “For goodness sake,” Margot says. “You feed, you burp, you check for a pantful. Stop making a production out of it.”

“Margot’s right,” Mary says.

“You can’t win with that bunch,” I say. “What’s Margot doing now?”

“She’s going on in a minute.”

We crowd around Mary’s computer in the sunroom. Otis is spinning records, slurping a milkshake. Bisquick pecks at the remains of Otis’s hamburger. Margot appears in frame. She shoves Otis out of the chair and pulls the stylus off with one motion.

“Don’t scratch my records,” Otis yells.

“Stick it up your arse, Otis.” She pushes Otis again and Bisquick goes after him.

“Fuck off, Bisquick.”

Now,” Margot says, adjusting herself in the seat. “I’ve got a few choice words for all of you out there. First,”—she lets out a raspberry— “that’s for the idiots sending me hate mail. And for those of you supporting me, learn to spell, for God’s sake. I’ve read about fifty different spellings of inalienable rights. It’s spelt the way it sounds. Mothers, feed your babies in private. You’re just begging for attention. And as for the people at City Hall? Set up feeding areas. All it takes is a partition. Isn’t that better than the shit you caused today?”

The screen fills with blogs and emails. Bisquick flies back and pecks at the monitor. Margot puts on her bifocals. “For heaven’s sake,” Margot says, “Nobody’s subjugating anybody, Lilly. Does anyone have anything constructive to say, or are you all—wait, here’s something. A woman in Rockford designed a shirt with vents just for breastfeeding. Slip the baby through the vent, let him feed. That’s a wonderful idea. These shirts are available on the web.”

Ping.

“Not here, on the web.”

Ping.

“What did I just say?”

Ping, ping, ping, ping.

“Look, all of you, go to Babyshirts—one word—dot com. I said, one word. Don’t you people listen? Here, I’m writing it down . . . see?”—She holds up a piece of paper—“For Pete’s sake, people. Mavis, if you’re watching, I got twenty orders. I’ll forward them in a minute. One last time. Send your orders to Babyshirts.com. Attention, Mavis Doolittle.”

The pings continue and Bisquick keeps pecking the monitor. Margot lets out another raspberry and Otis farts.

Fifty thousand views.