Page 1 of The Wickedness of Man

Magda

Istole into the bar’s bathroom, which, while still filled with the music being pumped through the interior speakers, wasn’t as loud as the main barroom and dance floor. I stared down at the incoming call on my phone and clutched it in both hands, girding myself as I sidled into the farthest corner from the collective sounds of handwashing and flushing toilets by the baby-changing area. I slid the answer key and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello Father,” I said, holding my hand over my mouth. “Mother.”

There was a pause before my father cleared his throat, his thick Liverpoolian accent coming through in lazy tones. “Hullo. Happy birthday, Magdalene.”

I knew that both of them would be there and have me on speaker, but it was only Father who answered. I flinched at the use of my full name, but then forced a pleasant-sounding tone into my voice.

“Thank you, Father,” I said, purposefully forming my words to be as clear and American as possible.

My regular speaking voice was a bit more of a faded, Americanized mixture of my mother’s and father’s Britishaccent, which seemed to drive her mad. She’d tried to have it educated out of me as a kid, but most of my teachers at the all-girls’ Catholic school I’d attended for the majority of my life had been from England, so the only time I completely abandoned any hint of it was when I spoke to my parents.

“Are you and Mother both well?”

Every conversation with them always made me feel like I was auditioning for the role of “good Christian daughter.” I always…alwaysfelt like I’d failed. Then I would have to try again, only to fail them in some other fashion.

I had to choose my words carefully; speak properly; prove nothing was out of place. The last thing I needed was for them to decide I wasn’t capable of living on my own.

Again.

“Yes, we—” He began, and I rolled my eyes as Mother interrupted.

“Where are you? It sounds like a club—are you out somewhere we wouldn’t approve of?”

Her voice was tight and rigid, almost borderline fearful, but then, she almost always sounded that way. I buried the urge to cuss her out, and instead forced my mouth into the semblance of a smile so I would sound relaxed.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, letting a laugh slip out that I hoped didn’t sound forced. “Katie’s treating me to dinner, but the restaurant’s a bit loud, so I’m in the bathroom—sorry about the noise. Would you like me to call later when we’re back at her apartment and I can talk?”

Please say no. Please say no?—

“It sounds like people are laughing—are there drunk people there?” Mother demanded.

I closed my eyes, imagining the old woman’s bony knuckles clutching the neck of her dressing gown. In lieu of the fact that my mother didn’t believe in owning jewelry, since “God wouldhave given us these things at birth if he wanted us to have them,” she had no pearls to clutch at, proverbially or otherwise.

“I don’t know, Mother, they could be. ItisFriday night, but like I said?—”

“Areyoudrinking?” she sniped. “Have you been drinking anything?”

“Just water and diet soda,” I answered dutifully.

With a splash… or three… of rum.

“Good,” said Father, clearly attempting to wrangle the phone out of Mother’s hands. “Well, we hope you and Katie enjoy your evening. Will you be coming over tomorrow for your birthday? If not, perhaps we can give you your gift before service on Sunday…?”

I hesitated before I answered. I wasn’t sure if they were extending the invitation because they had some nefarious plot in mind to force a drug test on me, as they’d done in the past, or if they were only doing it out of obligation. I never was certain with them.

“Oh, I won’t have time, I’m afraid,” I said, trying—and failing—to make myself sound regretful. “I’ve got a couple graphic design projects on a tight deadline, so I’m probably just going to stay in and work, maybe spend time over at Katie’s, or down in the café for a while. We could do dinner sometime soon if you’d like, though?”

Please say no.Please say no!

“What kind of projects?” demanded Mother. “We know you work for some of these… secular agencies.”

“Just corporate logos. One’s for a spin class studio at a gym, the other is for a site selling little yarn figures, needlepoints, prints, that kind of thing?—”

“Nothing you would need to hide, right? You’re being a good, godly child?” she pressed.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the website I was working on was for a pro-abortion feminist and Satanist, and she sold so many mini yarn Baphomet figures and crocheted uteruses with Satanic epithets that it was literally funding the entire site overhaul—and my paycheck.

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