from ‘Cookies for Margot’…

On a warm autumn evening, I walked hurriedly through the streets of Vienna with my sons. Charles, the younger of the two, tightly held the package that served as the object of our quest, keeping it safely tucked under his arm; he rushed right along, bustling to keep up to the larger steps of his older brother Richard and myself. They were both good lads, and they gave a father much to be proud of.
Thinking of the good fortune of my own family, my thoughts wandered to the ill luck the boys’ cousin, Margot, had endured. At seventeen, she discovered herself pregnant, though she had been warned repeatedly about eating seafood. Her mother, a wicked shrew, and her father, a belligerent souse, only made the matter all the more difficult, so we invited Margot to stay with us until the baby was born—or for as long as she liked.
The pregnancy was rife with difficulties, and it had only been in the last week that the doctors began to say it looked as though she would carry the child to term. This news, more than anything, was just what she needed to hear to raise her spirits. She always tried to put on a strong front, but we could tell she teetered on the brink of a breakdown at times. The horrible ordeals she had had to endure through the course of her life would have ruined a lesser person—but not our Margot! She was a charming girl, warm, funny, and a delight to have around. We all loved her—even the houseboy Manuel had developed a fondness for her, and generally Manuel only liked feet. Margot smelled of old, rotting fishnets, but it only made me think of my youth by the sea in southern Greece, so it bothered me not at all. And Margot had such a delicate beauty, like something one would see in a painting, something too perfect to be real. She was truly a work of art, and had I not already been married to her aunt, I am sure I would not have rested until she was mine. So, instead, I had to settle for peeking through the keyhole to watch her undress.
It was for the sake of dear Margot that my sons and I were abroad on the town that night, for she had an irresistible craving that grew within her and would not desist. The object of this insatiable hunger: cookies! It mattered not what sort of cookie, for she would eat all types. Margot would eat sugar cookies and plain cookies, and chocolate cookies and peanut butter cookies, and cookies with sprinkles, and sometimes she would even throw in a couple of pies, pretending them to be very large, creamy cookies. The important thing was for her to have the cookies, no matter the type, for only then could she be happy. And, more than anything, we wanted Margot to be happy, for, in truth, when she was not happy, she was a horrible, screaming bitch whom any one of us would have been delighted to strangle.
The evening seemed farther along than it really was, as the nights were already growing longer. Still, it seemed unseasonably warm, and we welcomed the feel of the occasional breeze to cool us on our brisk walk.
“Father, what’s that up there?” Charles asked, pointing ahead to some sort of disturbance. “What are all of those people doing?”
“I don’t know,” I replied absently, also trying to figure out what the commotion could be about. As we got closer I could see what had happened: a woman had dropped a large bag of marbles and a number of people had stopped to help her collect them, thus blocking the entire street.
Charles and Richard laughed at the sight of the distraught woman, who stood wobbling and crying and wringing her hands. Several other women tried to comfort her, but you could see she would not be calmed until her marbles had all been recovered.
“What’s the matter with her, Father?” asked Richard. “She seems so sad.”
“It is sad,” I replied. “That woman has lost her marbles.” Once again, I realized how lucky I was to have two such fine sons, a lovely wife, a spunky houseboy, and a beautiful member of the opposite sex who was not a blood relative, all living in my house. “Come along now, boys,” I said, “we shouldn’t stare at her; I am sure she has many problems.”
“But they are blocking our way,” Charles pointed out. “How will we get home?”
“We’ll have to take a side street,” I said.
“I know a way,” Richard commented, trying to sound nonchalant. His eyes gave him away, however, as they glanced eagerly in the direction of “Sleazy Street”—the Red Light District of Vienna.
“What do you mean?” I demanded, grabbing him roughly by the shirt and lifting him so only his toes brushed against the ground. “A real smart guy, huh?!”
Fear in his eyes, Richard stammered out an explanation. “I mean, I think I know of a way… I heard some of the boys talking and—”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” I said calmly, placing him back on the ground and smoothing out his sweater. “Some of the boys. Of course.” Yes, indeed, two fine, fine sons is what I had; what a very proud father I was!