Betsy Wickwire's Dirty Secret (9 page)

“No,” I said again, but Bobo just laughed and kept laughing all the way to the cashier and out the door.

I stared at the box of condoms in my hand and realized I was now officially dignity-free.

“Could you pass me my corn plasters, please?” I said to Murdoch, and headed to the checkout.

I
tossed and turned for several nights reliving the whole diaper/condom/corn plaster debacle but then I more or less just accepted it. It could have been worse.

Bobo drinks too much, fools around on his girlfriend and never shows up when he says he will, but I trust him. In his one year at Citadel High, “Father Bobo” had become the go-to guy for people with confessions to get off their chests, and, to the best of my knowledge, he'd never blabbed once. He'd said “my secret” was safe with him and I believed it. Bobo might have gotten the wrong impression but at least he wouldn't be passing it on to Nick—and that was all I really cared about.

In the end, I almost felt worse for Murdoch than me. Here's this poor dorky guy just minding his own business and Bobo starts winking at him about black bikini panties.

So I didn't know what to say when Murdoch's mother
e-mailed later that week and asked if we'd come the following Tuesday. My instinct was to say
no
, but I couldn't think of any way to justify it. I knew Dolores wouldn't think the fact that I'd already tussled naked with him once was reason enough to back out, and there was no way I was going to tell her about the Drugmart.

I felt a little better about going when Dolores said Mrs. Latimer specifically asked us not to be there before 10:00 a.m. I figured that was designed to give Murdoch some time to escape.

*

I figured wrong. I did my best not to cringe when we walked in and saw Murdoch, sitting at the kitchen counter hunched over a huge bowl of Froot Loops. My new life, I realized, was destined to be one awkward situation after another.

“Oops, sorry.” Dolores put her hands over her eyes. “You decent?” She peeked out at Murdoch from between her fingers.

She was so over-the-top embarrassing that I kind of relaxed. At least the things
I'd
done weren't on purpose. I got out the broom.

“More or less decent, I guess,” Murdoch said, wiping a dribble of milk off his chin with his knuckles. He didn't
look up from his bowl. “Didn't know you guys were coming today.”

“Yes. We rely on the element of surprise.” Dolores dropped her eyelids to half-mast as if she'd just said something dirty.

I dug around in the closet until I found the dustpan.

Murdoch went “uh-huh” and pushed his cereal to the side. Gritty pink milk sloshed onto the counter. He moved the bowl over to cover it up and more spilled out. He was so uncomfortable it was painful to watch. It was worse, I think, because of those ridiculously long limbs of his. He reminded me of a big nervous spider.

The Big Nervous Spider
. I saw the words in my head.

Mom had always wanted us to write a children's book together—a little mother-daughter project—but it seemed like a kind of dweeby thing to do. I had this sudden image of a cartoon spider with thick, horn-rimmed glasses and hair that needed cutting—and realized I was dangerously close to losing my mind. How long before I crossed the line between normal goofy and out-and-out bizarre?

Dolores sidled over to Murdoch. “So will you be providing the adult entertainment again this week?”

He sort of laughed at that or at least his body moved in a way that made you think he might be laughing. No sound actually came out. He pushed his glasses up his
nose and said, “‘Fraid I hung up my bunny tail. Decided to stick to something I'm good at.”

“Oh, really?” Dolores put her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands in an attempt, no doubt, at boosting her adorability rating. “And what
are
you good at? I mean, other than getting things off the top shelf, that is …”

Murdoch's ears turned the colour of raw hamburger.

“Did your mother leave us a list?” I said to rescue him.

He looked up, then immediately away, and I knew in that instant it was me embarrassing him, not Dolores. Why I thought her little comments would be worse than my all-out assaults on the guy I don't know. Now we were both blushing.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked aimlessly around the kitchen. “Um, well, if she left a list it would be here somewhere and I don't see anything, so I'd just, I don't know, do the—whatever—usual stuff.”

I could see by the semi-crazed gleam in Dolores's eye that she was trying to come up with some witty
slash
inappropriate response to that.

“I'll do upstairs,” I said. “Get me out of here,” I thought.

I started rooting around under the sink for cleaning supplies. The front door banged open. Murdoch jumped to attention and sent the kitchen light swinging. I popped up too, my heart pounding.

“Eh. Murdo! You're awake. Mom notice I didn't come home last night?”

A tall girl with long, dark hair careened into the kitchen. She must have been about twenty-one or -two and probably pretty, but she'd obviously forgotten to take off her makeup before she went to bed the night before.
If
she went to bed, that is.

Murdoch flopped back on the stool, clearly relieved. I couldn't get that spider image out of my head. I almost expected him to wipe his brow with the back of one of his eight legs.

“Don't think so,” he said. “Didn't mention it to me anyway.”

The girl clapped her hands together in prayer and said, “Thank you, Lord,” like some hick TV preacher. She noticed Dolores and me. “Oh, hey. You must be the ones …”

“Yes, they are.” Murdoch sounded like he was talking through his teeth.

“Oops.” The girl started laughing behind her hand and it dawned on me that she might still be drunk.

Murdoch sighed. “Thank you, Natalie. You may go now …”

She mouthed
Sorry
, then suddenly leapt and put Murdoch in a headlock. She noogied away at his scalp until his hair was standing out like a small shrub.

He pushed her away but not hard, just enough to get
rid of her and she left the room, laughing. He was laughing too, though you could tell he was trying not to.

Dolores watched the scene with a knowing smirk. (Natalie was obviously a member of her tribe.) “Nice ‘fro,” she said, bouncing her hand off Murdoch's hair. “Makes you look taller.”

“Just what I need.” He pounded his hair down as if he was trying to stuff it into a suitcase. That only made it worse, as Dolores was happy to point out.

This was all too painful to witness. I picked up my cleaning supplies and left.

I'd planned to start on the bathroom but I heard the toilet flush and knew Natalie had beaten me to it.

I swept the hall instead. When Natalie still hadn't come out five minutes later, I wiped down the staircase and rubbed some fingerprints off the wall. (I always kept my own bottle of Prints Charming Wipe-Out Gel with me now, just in case. It was one of my favourite products.) I waited. I dusted a little folk-art table made from painted twigs, then studied the family portrait above it. I couldn't tell if Murdoch looked like his mother or his father because everyone was wearing Groucho Marx glasses. They were an odd family.

After a while, I started to think Natalie was either asleep or passed out. I considered going downstairs to do the other bathroom instead, but I could hear Dolores flirting away with Murdoch at full bore.

People still flirt. I was surprised how sad that made me. It was like finding out about a party I hadn't been invited to. I rubbed away at a black heel-mark on the floor and tried to come up with a nice comfortable daydream to distract myself with until Natalie got out of the bathroom.

Sometimes, when I was by myself in my room and everyone was out of the house, I could think about Nick in just the right way—no Carly, no ugly memories, no expectations, just sort of Nick in space—and it was delicious. It almost put me into a trance, like a sauna would or a massage or a really long kiss that leaves you sort of pleasantly stunned and wobbly.

I tried to do that now. I imagined him, his hands on his hips, shaking his legs out after his run, taking his cap off, wiping his forehead in the crook of his elbow. I walked him through his cool-down as he stretched his hamstrings, rolled out his shoulders, reached back and held his foot up tight against his thigh. He was just so beautiful. I could have stayed here forever, watching him do nothing but be Nick—

“The Flamingo Restaurant? No way. You're kidding!”

Dolores's voice deflated my daydream like a giant pin. I pressed my lips together and blew air out my nose. I was like Nick—in that way at least. I couldn't take distractions. I knew I wouldn't be able to turn on my little home movie again.

I leaned against the wall with my head back and my eyes just sort of looking for something to focus on. I noticed some dust above Murdoch's door.

Then I noticed the door was slightly open. My mind went suspiciously blank. I looked at the bathroom. I listened. No sound.

I began to sweep the hall again. When I got to his room, I nudged the door open with the broom.

I kept sweeping the same spot. No one listening would have thought anything was up.

I peeked in.

The bed was unmade and there were a few clothes on the floor but the room was still oddly neat compared to the rest of the house. The shelves were full of books, magazines, CDs, and what looked like vintage toys, all organized by height or colour or maybe even both. There were two big posters on one wall—they must have been the Czech ones Dolores had seen the other day—but the other walls were covered with dozens of big cartoony-type drawings. There were so many and they were so perfectly lined up, they could have been wallpaper. I wondered if Murdoch had drawn them himself or if they were just something he collected.

The answer was right in front of me.

Just above the desk was a drawing of a tall skinny naked guy covering himself up with what seemed to be a
large white bunny tail. I eased the door open a little more to get a better look. My heart was going like a double-dutch rope. I wanted to see how he'd drawn the girl in the shower—or the drugstore.

A tap turned on and I heard the sound of water rushing. I pulled the door closed and skittered down the hall.

“All yours,” Natalie said, patting my shoulder on the way past. “Hope you didn't need to go as bad as I did.”

I went into the bathroom, locked the door and sat on the toilet. I was kind of shaky, thrown off balance. It was Murdoch's room that did it, I knew that, but didn't quite know why. Something about all the drawings and the bright colours and things lined up like that. It was so weird and neat and organized. It made me feel like I was wrong about something.

I picked a wet towel up off the floor and hung it on a rack.

I was wrong about Dolores. That's what it was.

I looked in the mirror and everything became clear. They were made for each other. No wonder he'd been blushing.

I
was in Mrs. Burton's kitchen, the Friday after that, polishing her silver. My armpits were sticky with sweat and the tips of my fingers had gone all pruney but there was no way I was stopping. I told myself I wasn't giving up until the Ashburn Golf Course Senior Women's Championship Cup gleamed.

I scooped out another splotch of polish and rubbed at a little black spot on the handle. I pictured Mrs. Burton coming home unexpectedly from her Ladies' Hospital Auxiliary meeting and saying,
Oh, my! Would you look at that!
I rubbed harder.

The cloth squealed against the silver. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I was being childish, but I couldn't help it. Something had changed since I realized that thing about Murdoch and Dolores. He likes her. So what? It's not like I was interested in him. I mean, this isn't a competition.

It just feels like it
.

I flicked at the black spot with my fingernail.

I have a competitive streak. I know that. Not my best quality, perhaps, but it worked for me on the basketball court, on the soccer pitch, in my honours history course. I was just trying to make it work for me here.

I loaded more polish on to the cloth and rubbed the last of the spot away.

I needed something good in my life right now. I wasn't working at a hip coffeehouse any more. I didn't have a boyfriend. My friends had finally gotten the hint and stopped calling (and that kind of hurt too). What did I have left? I needed Mrs. Burton to think I was the best cleaning lady ever. I needed someone to think I was the best at
something
again. I didn't want to fall off the edge of the world.

Nancy F. Burton. She was used to winning too. Her name was on the cup three years running. I used my finger to work the polish into the inscription and thought of the yogourt tub on my dresser. It was almost full of twenty-dollar bills now. That boosted my spirits a bit. We had lots of customers. People liked us. I did a good job.

I did the math. By the end of August, I might actually have enough money to get out of town after all.

By the end of August
. Those words were shocking. By the end of August, I was supposed to be packing up for McGill.

I put down the cloth and it was like my heart went down with it. How was I going to tell my parents I wasn't going to McGill? I couldn't put it off much longer. Mom was already talking about shopping for my “fall wardrobe.”

What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? Work at another crap job in another crap town? Live by myself? I'd never lived by myself. Go to a different university? How? I'd already turned down all the other offers I'd had. Just wait it out here while Nick and Carly head off to McGill? I'd go crazy. My parents would go crazy.

Had I really thought escape was going to be that easy?

Life was all so complicated and confusing and impossible. Mrs. Burton's golf cup, on the other hand, was not. I made myself pick up the cloth and started polishing again.

The roses at the base of the trophy were finicky, which at least gave me a problem to attack. I wondered if a Q-tip or a makeup brush would work better than the cloth. I noticed my reflection looking back at me. I really needed to do something about my eyebrows.

Maybe I should use some of the money I'd made this summer to get them waxed. I turned my face to the side and looked again.
And get my hair cut
. I sucked in my bottom lip when I realized what else I was thinking.
And get Nick back
.

I went cold and scared. I rubbed harder. I didn't know where that came from.

I rubbed the last of the polish off the flowers and thought of the rosebush beside our house and the prom pictures we'd taken there and for the first time I felt kind of indignant. Why should I just let Carly have him? Why should I be worried about what I'm doing next year? Why shouldn't
she
be the one worried? It wasn't like me to give up that easy.

This wasn't me. That other person was me. The one in the red dress with the shiny hair and the neat eyebrows and the basketball trophies. That Betsy would do something about this.

It made me nervous even thinking in a vague, someday kind of way about getting Nick back but it was a start. You've got to let a cold car warm up a bit before you take off.

Vroom, vroom
, I thought and swallowed a laugh.

I was giving the golf cup one last quick buff when I realized I was being eyeballed.

“Oh, come on! That's all you've done?” Dolores was at the bottom of the stairs with an armload of newspapers for recycling. “I've cleaned the entire second floor and emptied the kitty litter too. What's the matter with you?”

“The matter with me? I got you to do all the work. Sounds like
you're
the one with the problem.”

Dolores chuckled. “Good point.” She headed down the basement stairs.

Right then, even Dolores didn't seem all that bad any more. You just had to stand up to her and she was fine.

I'd stand up to Carly too. Get my boyfriend back. It sounded like a song to me. I started to hum.

I put the cup on the living room mantel and checked what was next on my list.
Ironing
. My mouth puckered up into a happy little O. Ironing was my new favourite thing. It was so easy to make everything perfect with a good, hot steam iron. I practically skipped to the laundry room.

I dinged a bottle of laundry softener taking the iron out of the cupboard. I managed to catch it before it fell but the cap landed on the floor. I pushed the washer and the dryer apart to get it and saw a bottle of sherry wedged in there too.

Kids, I thought.

I leaned down to pick up the cap and realized there were no kids here. Mr. and Mrs. Burton must be in their seventies. The sherry belonged to them.

One of them had hidden it.

I pictured Mrs. Burton with her nice neat bob and her bridge club and her volunteer work with the Children's Hospital and the United Way. I got that shimmery feeling again.

I hadn't suspected her at all—but that was one of the
great things about cleaning people's houses. Those little surprises. I'd become kind of addicted to them ever since I'd stumbled on to Amy's Prozac. If she was so perfect and
she
needed antidepressants, what were other people hiding?

Lots. It never took me long to find something. I'd open a few closets or drawers, look in a jewellery box or under a bed, or if the computer was on, maybe check the history. It's not like I had to ransack anybody's house. It was all pretty much there for the taking. The racy underwear, the Viagra, the divorce papers. The pictures from someone's fat days — or bald days. The hunk of hash in the retainer case. I even found a hypodermic needle hidden in a chandelier once, but that was just luck, not looking.

And then there were all the things that shouldn't have been secret but I knew were. Dr. Norton is a professor at Saint Mary's. The magazines on top of his bedside table were all called
The Economist
and
Political Science Today
—but the ones tucked underneath were
People
and
Us
. I knew I'd found his little secret. I didn't need to look any more. I always felt better about cleaning houses after stuff like that.

I pushed the washer and dryer back and put the cap on the laundry softener. I started ironing the napkins. What was Dolores's secret? I wondered.

I couldn't imagine her even having one. She was so
out-there. It was like she was cavorting around naked for all the world to see and she didn't care.
Naked
made me think of Murdoch.

I shot a hot blast of steam on to a napkin, then pressed and folded and pressed and folded it into a nice, crisp rectangle.

They were perfect for each other. I should be happy for them. To each his own.

I laid out another crumpled napkin and ironed it flat.

“Oh. My. God.” Dolores was standing in the laundry room doorway, shaking her head. “Did somebody hit you with a tranquilizer bullet or something? Seriously. Stephen Hawking could have got those napkins done faster than you.”

I laughed. “Good one, Dolores.”

I could almost see why he liked her.