Little Margaret
by Candi Sary
The residents living near Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, in the town of Ordinary, California, keep their kids inside every Wednesday. That day, Father Alejandro invites the homeless into the neighborhood. Long lines of hungry people show up for the hundreds of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches the nuns make.
“But couldn’t he set up his tables and hand out sandwiches somewhere over on Gary Street?” the neighbors ask. The homeless hang out on that side of town anyway. Why bring that kind of element into a family community?
“‘Each one of them is Jesus in disguise,’” Father Alejandro likes to say, quoting Mother Teresa.
The neighbors want to trust the old priest, but it’s hard to believe that Jesus would feel the need to come up with so many unsavory disguises. While they continue to complain, no one has yet mustered the courage to put a foot down and make the Jesuses go away.
The petite woman in the long black frock is first in line most Wednesdays. She never speaks, yet Father Alejandro never gives up trying to guess her name.
“Dorothy?” he tries one day. She shakes her head. “Alice?” She shakes it again. “Ahh,” he sighs, exasperated. “I’ve tried every name I could think of. Would it be okay if I gifted you a name?” He smiles an uneven smile, a stroke leaving the left side of his face slack.
She shrugs.
“I’d say the name Margaret fits you well.”
She doesn’t have a reason to say no, and she is hungry enough to want to move things along. She nods, accepting the name.
The old priest’s hand, unsteady but purposeful, reaches into the plastic bin for a sandwich. He stuffs it into a brown lunch bag that includes chips, one of Sister Annie’s homemade cookies, and a juice box. Handing the bag to her, he leans over the table saying, “If you get hungry later, you know you can always go to the back door of the convent for seconds.”
Across the walkway, Sister Mary’s sandwich line moves along much quicker, but the few who wait for Father Alejandro go away with more than just food.
The following Wednesday, after Margaret acquired the new name, Paulie, bearded, barefoot and always cheerful—a favorite among the homeless in Ordinary—expands on the name. As the petite lady in the long black frock unwraps her sandwich, he calls out, “Hey, Little Margaret.”
Margaret’s body language says more than any words could. She folds her arms over herself and stands up taller, eyes squinted, lips pressed together.
“Don’t go beatin’ me up with them hazel eyes,” Paulie says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I thought you got a new name. I was just callin’ you by it. I never get to greet you properly since I don’t know your name. I’m just tryin’ to show you my gentlemanly side.” His dimples are deeper than all the other lines on his face, and even though he’s dirty, and his baggy clothes smell like vinegar, Margaret can’t deny his charm.
She bows her head in case a smile creeps through. Keeping her eyes on the ground she eats her sandwich.
The truth is she likes the name Margaret, but she doesn’t like being called little. Little was how she felt up against the new homeless guy in town who grabbed her arm three days ago and took the cold coffee she’d found on top of the trash can. It was his coffee, he’d said, even though she knew he hadn’t bought it. Little was how she felt compared to the teenagers who stole her cart last month and threw her clothes in the street to get run over by cars. Little was a dangerous name for a woman on the streets.
“I didn’t mean little in a bad way,” Paulie says coming to stand beside her. “I mean it with affection, like cute little Margaret.”
Margaret, still not looking up at him, considers the affection over the danger. The danger will always be there. The affection feels like a rare opportunity.
Eyes still toward the ground, she nods her head.
“So, I can call you that?”
She nods again.
“Alright, alright,” he says bouncing in place. “We got some communication going on here. I like it. I like it.” He opens the bag of chips and between chews asks, “So, hey, why don’t you ever talk?”
With this, he’s gone too far. She shakes her head and puts her hands over her mouth, afraid that someone friendly like Paulie could disarm her and make the words slip out.
“Oh no,” he says, his forehead creased and eyes puppy-dogging into sadness. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing before. You lost your voice box?”
She smiles, amused by his quick jump to conclusion. A silent laugh even pushes through her nose at the absurdity of his assumption. Paulie takes her response as a yes, and kindly offers his new, voiceless friend his peanut butter sandwich. Together, he does all the talking for the two of them and her secret stays safe.
Murphy’s Market sits on Gary Street over by the freeway, alongside a cheap motel, a liquor store, a questionable video rental shop, and a rowdy bar. Ordinary is a clean and respectable enough place to live, but just as every decent family has that one bad uncle, Ordinary has Gary.
Little Margaret, before she gave up talking altogether, stood beside the market entrance each morning with her empty coffee tin. The employees at Murphy’s rather liked the timid lady with the softspoken voice. She never caused trouble, unlike the contrary characters who sometimes required police intervention. Every employee would drop a little change in her tin when they passed by. It became a gesture of kindness, an act toward good karma. Even if it was just a quarter or a dime, the Murphy’s family made it a habit to give her something every day.
And so that fateful day when Mr. Box, the manager, passed by without even giving a penny, Gloria and Rod, two of the checkers, eyed him, trying to hold back judgment. Mr. Box didn’t have to give. They understood that. It was just that he drove a Cadillac and wore nice watches. And working on Gary Street, he should understand what a blessing it was to have someone as nonthreatening as Little Margaret at the door.
Less than an hour after clocking in, Mr. Box fell to the ground dead from a heart attack. A fire truck, paramedics, and crowds of people from the area gathered in the parking lot. They tried resuscitating him. But his heart had no more beats left.
After the paramedics took Mr. Box’s body away, and the store closed for the day, the employees sat together on the benches behind the grocery carts, trying to make sense of it.
“He wasn’t overweight.”
“He ate pretty healthy.”
“He played golf three days a week.”
“He was a good husband and father.”
If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone. And so, the people discussing this unsettling death looked for a reason that might separate Mr. Box from them, something that might differentiate their risk from his.
Gloria spoke up first, looking over at the homeless lady across from them. “He didn’t give her anything today,” she said with her hand covering her mouth, “not even a penny.”
All eyes went toward Little Margaret. She stared back but didn’t say anything. They all bowed their heads.
“Every other morning,” Rod added in a whisper, “Mr. Box gave her something.”
“Maybe.” Gloria swallowed to wash down the lump gathering in her throat. “Maybe God chose to punish his lack of charity today.”
“Maybe,” the teenage bag boy agreed, his changing voice cracking the word in two.
The possibility only needed a little massaging to fit nicely into their beliefs. Gloria’s idea spread its roots into the minds of those in the parking lot, and then over the next couple weeks further into the minds of the entire distraught community. Mr. Box was a well-known man—nice enough, healthy enough, young enough. His lack of charity must have been the cause of death. The people of Ordinary desperately needed to believe something that could prevent the same tragedy from happening to them, and so it became the truth.
Little Margaret, with the softspoken voice, wanted to tell them their assumption was wrong. She wanted to explain that Mr. Box didn’t give her anything on the morning of his death only because he’d given her a twenty the day before. A twenty-dollar bill! His karma was golden.
She wanted to tell the people they had it all wrong. But she’d been living on the streets long enough to understand that what people craved more than the truth was a good story. The times she told her best stories to strangers; she would get to eat. In this case, she didn’t even have to come up with one; the people gave themselves a good story. One that compelled everyone in town to toss a quarter or even a dollar into her coffee tin every time they passed by.
This is what Little Margaret could not tell Paulie. After Mr. Box died, she never used her voice again, afraid the truth might slip out. Instead, she let the town’s myth feed her, swallowing down the urge to speak with every bite of potato salad, tuna sandwich, vanilla yogurt, and the occasional cheeseburger and fries.
And so, every Wednesday after Wednesday after Wednesday, in the town of Ordinary, California, Father Alejandro feeds the many Jesuses who come to him, Paulie shares his words and sandwiches with a lady friend who lost her voice box, shoppers at Murphy’s Market toss change into a coffee tin to safeguard their hearts, and the little lady in the black frock silently lets them all keep their stories, knowing that a good story is sometimes all it takes to eat.
“But couldn’t he set up his tables and hand out sandwiches somewhere over on Gary Street?” the neighbors ask. The homeless hang out on that side of town anyway. Why bring that kind of element into a family community?
“‘Each one of them is Jesus in disguise,’” Father Alejandro likes to say, quoting Mother Teresa.
The neighbors want to trust the old priest, but it’s hard to believe that Jesus would feel the need to come up with so many unsavory disguises. While they continue to complain, no one has yet mustered the courage to put a foot down and make the Jesuses go away.
The petite woman in the long black frock is first in line most Wednesdays. She never speaks, yet Father Alejandro never gives up trying to guess her name.
“Dorothy?” he tries one day. She shakes her head. “Alice?” She shakes it again. “Ahh,” he sighs, exasperated. “I’ve tried every name I could think of. Would it be okay if I gifted you a name?” He smiles an uneven smile, a stroke leaving the left side of his face slack.
She shrugs.
“I’d say the name Margaret fits you well.”
She doesn’t have a reason to say no, and she is hungry enough to want to move things along. She nods, accepting the name.
The old priest’s hand, unsteady but purposeful, reaches into the plastic bin for a sandwich. He stuffs it into a brown lunch bag that includes chips, one of Sister Annie’s homemade cookies, and a juice box. Handing the bag to her, he leans over the table saying, “If you get hungry later, you know you can always go to the back door of the convent for seconds.”
Across the walkway, Sister Mary’s sandwich line moves along much quicker, but the few who wait for Father Alejandro go away with more than just food.
The following Wednesday, after Margaret acquired the new name, Paulie, bearded, barefoot and always cheerful—a favorite among the homeless in Ordinary—expands on the name. As the petite lady in the long black frock unwraps her sandwich, he calls out, “Hey, Little Margaret.”
Margaret’s body language says more than any words could. She folds her arms over herself and stands up taller, eyes squinted, lips pressed together.
“Don’t go beatin’ me up with them hazel eyes,” Paulie says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I thought you got a new name. I was just callin’ you by it. I never get to greet you properly since I don’t know your name. I’m just tryin’ to show you my gentlemanly side.” His dimples are deeper than all the other lines on his face, and even though he’s dirty, and his baggy clothes smell like vinegar, Margaret can’t deny his charm.
She bows her head in case a smile creeps through. Keeping her eyes on the ground she eats her sandwich.
The truth is she likes the name Margaret, but she doesn’t like being called little. Little was how she felt up against the new homeless guy in town who grabbed her arm three days ago and took the cold coffee she’d found on top of the trash can. It was his coffee, he’d said, even though she knew he hadn’t bought it. Little was how she felt compared to the teenagers who stole her cart last month and threw her clothes in the street to get run over by cars. Little was a dangerous name for a woman on the streets.
“I didn’t mean little in a bad way,” Paulie says coming to stand beside her. “I mean it with affection, like cute little Margaret.”
Margaret, still not looking up at him, considers the affection over the danger. The danger will always be there. The affection feels like a rare opportunity.
Eyes still toward the ground, she nods her head.
“So, I can call you that?”
She nods again.
“Alright, alright,” he says bouncing in place. “We got some communication going on here. I like it. I like it.” He opens the bag of chips and between chews asks, “So, hey, why don’t you ever talk?”
With this, he’s gone too far. She shakes her head and puts her hands over her mouth, afraid that someone friendly like Paulie could disarm her and make the words slip out.
“Oh no,” he says, his forehead creased and eyes puppy-dogging into sadness. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing before. You lost your voice box?”
She smiles, amused by his quick jump to conclusion. A silent laugh even pushes through her nose at the absurdity of his assumption. Paulie takes her response as a yes, and kindly offers his new, voiceless friend his peanut butter sandwich. Together, he does all the talking for the two of them and her secret stays safe.
Murphy’s Market sits on Gary Street over by the freeway, alongside a cheap motel, a liquor store, a questionable video rental shop, and a rowdy bar. Ordinary is a clean and respectable enough place to live, but just as every decent family has that one bad uncle, Ordinary has Gary.
Little Margaret, before she gave up talking altogether, stood beside the market entrance each morning with her empty coffee tin. The employees at Murphy’s rather liked the timid lady with the softspoken voice. She never caused trouble, unlike the contrary characters who sometimes required police intervention. Every employee would drop a little change in her tin when they passed by. It became a gesture of kindness, an act toward good karma. Even if it was just a quarter or a dime, the Murphy’s family made it a habit to give her something every day.
And so that fateful day when Mr. Box, the manager, passed by without even giving a penny, Gloria and Rod, two of the checkers, eyed him, trying to hold back judgment. Mr. Box didn’t have to give. They understood that. It was just that he drove a Cadillac and wore nice watches. And working on Gary Street, he should understand what a blessing it was to have someone as nonthreatening as Little Margaret at the door.
Less than an hour after clocking in, Mr. Box fell to the ground dead from a heart attack. A fire truck, paramedics, and crowds of people from the area gathered in the parking lot. They tried resuscitating him. But his heart had no more beats left.
After the paramedics took Mr. Box’s body away, and the store closed for the day, the employees sat together on the benches behind the grocery carts, trying to make sense of it.
“He wasn’t overweight.”
“He ate pretty healthy.”
“He played golf three days a week.”
“He was a good husband and father.”
If it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone. And so, the people discussing this unsettling death looked for a reason that might separate Mr. Box from them, something that might differentiate their risk from his.
Gloria spoke up first, looking over at the homeless lady across from them. “He didn’t give her anything today,” she said with her hand covering her mouth, “not even a penny.”
All eyes went toward Little Margaret. She stared back but didn’t say anything. They all bowed their heads.
“Every other morning,” Rod added in a whisper, “Mr. Box gave her something.”
“Maybe.” Gloria swallowed to wash down the lump gathering in her throat. “Maybe God chose to punish his lack of charity today.”
“Maybe,” the teenage bag boy agreed, his changing voice cracking the word in two.
The possibility only needed a little massaging to fit nicely into their beliefs. Gloria’s idea spread its roots into the minds of those in the parking lot, and then over the next couple weeks further into the minds of the entire distraught community. Mr. Box was a well-known man—nice enough, healthy enough, young enough. His lack of charity must have been the cause of death. The people of Ordinary desperately needed to believe something that could prevent the same tragedy from happening to them, and so it became the truth.
Little Margaret, with the softspoken voice, wanted to tell them their assumption was wrong. She wanted to explain that Mr. Box didn’t give her anything on the morning of his death only because he’d given her a twenty the day before. A twenty-dollar bill! His karma was golden.
She wanted to tell the people they had it all wrong. But she’d been living on the streets long enough to understand that what people craved more than the truth was a good story. The times she told her best stories to strangers; she would get to eat. In this case, she didn’t even have to come up with one; the people gave themselves a good story. One that compelled everyone in town to toss a quarter or even a dollar into her coffee tin every time they passed by.
This is what Little Margaret could not tell Paulie. After Mr. Box died, she never used her voice again, afraid the truth might slip out. Instead, she let the town’s myth feed her, swallowing down the urge to speak with every bite of potato salad, tuna sandwich, vanilla yogurt, and the occasional cheeseburger and fries.
And so, every Wednesday after Wednesday after Wednesday, in the town of Ordinary, California, Father Alejandro feeds the many Jesuses who come to him, Paulie shares his words and sandwiches with a lady friend who lost her voice box, shoppers at Murphy’s Market toss change into a coffee tin to safeguard their hearts, and the little lady in the black frock silently lets them all keep their stories, knowing that a good story is sometimes all it takes to eat.
Candi Sary is the author of the novel, Magdalena (Regal House Publishing), and a winner of the 2024 Eric Hoffer Book Award for General Fiction. Her previous novel, Black Crow White Lie (Casperian Books) was first runner-up in the 2013 Eric Hoffer Book Award. Her current manuscript, Wonderful, made the shortlist of the Master's Review Novel Excerpt Contest. She lives in Southern California with her husband, a dog, a cat, and several ducks.