Skeletons in the Closet (4 page)

“I just…I feel inferior.”

“Inferior how?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t fit in. All of the people are sophisticated and worldly, and I’m the only stay-at-home mom around here.”

Neil frowned. “No you aren’t. Josh’s friend Randy and a few kids in Kenny’s class all have stay-at-home mothers.”

“No, they have
society
stay-at-home mothers, women who do event coordination and fund-raising for charity. Not mothers who clip coupons and shop clothing sales six months ahead. Those mothers don’t have to wipe the sweat from their checkbooks every month.”

Neil hugged me, and I breathed in the confident and comforting smell of him. “You’re a terrific mother to those boys, and I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you by my side. And don’t tell me you aren’t worldly in your own way. I happen to know of a late night trek along a major highway which resulted in a diamond ring being hurled into the Atlantic. How many women can claim that?” He released his grip and turned me so I looked into his eyes. “I see you, Maggie.”

“I see you too.” I smiled at our special phrase.

“
Mom!
”

I glanced up at the sound of Kenny’s voice as he slammed the front door. Josh and Kenny stampeded into the house in the way only young boys could. Kenny had dropped his backpack in the entryway, but Josh clutched his to his chest like a life preserver.

“Hey, guys, how was school?”

Kenny squeezed past me, his nine-year-old body craving whatever the fridge had to offer. “
Borrrr-
ing.”

“Josh?” I felt a prickling at the back of my neck. Josh usually shoved his brother out of the way and joined in with the chorus of boring. Today, however, he seemed shell-shocked and clutched that backpack with all his might.

Kenny surfaced from the fridge with an apple and one of those disgusting squeeze yogurts in the tube. “My teacher told us about the Native Americans coming to the first Thanksgiving, how they shared their food with the Pilgrims, ‘cause they were too stupid to grow their own food.”

Neil cleared his throat. “They weren’t stupid, Kenny, they didn’t know how. The Indians showed them how.”

“Mom always says ignorance is no excuse. Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“It’s Native Americans now, Neil,” I said. “It has been for a few decades. And Kenny, you’re right, I do say that, but if you don’t know how to do something, you need to ask for help. That was the point of the first Thanksgiving, that the Native Americans befriended the settlers.”

“Didn’t the colonists steal their land?”

“Later,” I mumbled and turned my attention to Neil. “Maybe you should explain the finer points of American history to him, while I talk with Josh.”

“You always get the easy one,” Neil groused as he followed Kenny’s prattling voice down the hall to the boys’ bedroom.

I took out a bag of baby carrots and some dip I’d made earlier and set them on the counter. Our kitchen is decorated circa 1963, with a hideous yellow wall border to match the awful lime green walls. The counter is a U shape with a range top and the original sink set into a work counter that separates the kitchen and dining room. I had purchased a few barstools on one of my more successful garage sale excursions and reupholstered them in a practical brown that Neil and the kids say looks like…well, you know.

The fridge—which we’d replaced out of necessity—and the wall oven, made up the fourth side of the room. I also owned a portable dishwasher that napped in the garage until after dinner.

“What’s up, Doc?” I munched on a carrot and did my best Bugs Bunny, but Josh shot me a
you’re so
lame
look. “Spill it, tough guy.”

“You have to promise not to make a big deal out of this,” Josh implored me.

Uh oh. I sat on one of the stools in case the news was going to disrupt my digestive tract. “What am I not making a big deal about?”

Josh miserably opened his backpack and dug out a crumpled piece of paper. I took it from him without further comment. After scanning the contents, I looked to Josh, who’d put his head on the counter.

“Why didn’t you write your book report?” I asked in my most even voice. Josh was an excellent student who loved to read as much as he loved to backtalk. I couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t completed an assignment.

“It was this stupid book about this guy who goes fishing but doesn’t catch anything.”

I frowned. “
The Old Man and the Sea
? Why would your teacher assign that to a sixth grader?”

“I had to pick it out of the library. It looked short enough that I thought I could get it over with quick, like a Band-Aid.”

I cringed because there was no quick way to get past the painful works of Ernest Hemingway. “This is a book more appropriate for older kids. Why did your teacher let you choose that?”

“Mrs. Martin said I was intelligent enough to understand the symbolism and nuances. She said she was looking forward to my report. But after I finished, I couldn’t write about it because I didn’t know what to say.”

I took another carrot and dipped it, smelling the sour cream and onion soup mix before I ate it. “You know how to do a book report, Josh. You summarize the plot—”

“But there
was
no plot! The guy went fishing! That’s one sentence! That’s less words than in the title! That’s not a report. How could I hand that in?” Josh looked so upset, and I pulled him into my arms. It’s always a coin toss whether he’ll let me do that anymore. It was a rough day in the Phillips’ house.

I felt his frustration. I remembered my own struggles in school reading the “classics” touted as the be-all end-all of literature. Poor Josh had years of this aggravation and struggle ahead of him.

“I tell you what, Scamp. I’ll call your teacher and see if maybe she’ll let you read another book, one which is more appropriate for your age. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Josh nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.

“Why don’t you go do your other assignments? I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Josh picked up his backpack and headed down the hall. Neil ruffled his hair as they passed in the hallway. I started chopping onions with a vengeance, and Neil retrieved a beer from the fridge. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he waited for me to fill him in.

“Fricking Hemingway,” I said.

Neil laughed.

* * * *

Dinner was a serious affair with mass quantities of shepherd’s pie and mixed veggies disappearing at the speed of light. I’m constantly amazed that there isn’t food flying everywhere as my guys create vortexes that suck all things edible from the table. My Hoover vacuum isn’t that efficient.

After dinner, Neil helped the boys finish their homework as I cleaned the kitchen. Afterwards, I curled up with my latest romance novel.

The phone rang.

“It’s me,” Sylvia said without preamble. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, reading.”

“Good, I’m coming over.”

“Sylvie, wait!”

But she’d severed the connection.

I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand. Stupid! I couldn’t fathom a way out of Maggie’s a pathetic loser, round two, but I should have made an excuse.

“Neil!” I shouted.

He jogged down the hall from the bedrooms. “What’s up?”

“You wanna make out?”

He gave me his boyish, lopsided grin. “Is that a trick question?”

“Take off your shirt.”

“What’s the rush?”

“I want to have a good reason not to answer the door.”

The doorbell rang.

“Shit!”

“Now, honey, I know I’m irresistible, but there’s a time and a place—”

“December 31, 2009, will be the next time. Mark it on your calendar, smart ass.”

Still laughing, Neil opened the door. Sylvia brushed past him with barely a hello, and I waved at Eric over the top of her head. An unzipped sweatshirt covered Sylvia’s yoga top, and she’d braided her hair on each side of her head so she looked like Heidi. I had the urge to get some gel and a red marker and see if I could turn her into Pippi.

“Francesca Carmichael was in my 6:30 class. She told me to give this to you.”

It took me a second to erase the vision of Francesca, who made a much better imaginary Pippi, from my muddled brain. I looked at the white envelope Sylvia held but didn’t reach for it.

“If you don’t open it, I will.” Sylvia made as if she was going to unseal the envelope.

I snatched it from her hand and opened it, feeling both reluctance and anticipation. My hand shook as I removed the plain, cream-colored stationary.

“What does it say?” Sylvia practically shrieked at me.

I read aloud. “Dear Mrs. Phillips. First, allow me to apologize for that horrid display last night. My sister and I have our differences, but we never meant to involve you in our family tiff. That being said, please consider the job offer I made you last night as genuine. I have enclosed a check for five hundred dollars….”

I stopped reading.

“No way! You’re making that up!” Sylvia yelped and grabbed the letter back.

I looked in the envelope, and low and behold, there was a check inside. A five hundred dollar check sighed by Alessandra Kline.

“Why would she have Frannie give this to me? Why not mail it?” Sylvia stood over my shoulder and stared at the check.

“Probably because it’s made out to cash,” Neil said from his position behind me.

Even Eric had crowded in to look at the check. The four of us stood there staring at it. We were all adults, living in the twenty-first century, so the sight of five hundred dollars shouldn’t have floored us. But the whole situation was so bizarre.

Neil took the letter and continued where I had stopped. “I have enclosed a check for five hundred dollars to cover your initial expenses and as a gesture of good faith. I hope to see you Thursday at nine. Sincerely yours, Alessandra Kline.”

We stood for a moment in contemplative silence.

“That should go a long way to soothing your ruffled feathers, Uncle Scrooge,” Neil said.

“You’re going to take the job now, right, Maggie?” She waved the check in front of my face. “This proves that they aren’t horrible people out to insult you. She even apologized! You have to do it!”

“It would only be temporary,” Neil reminded me.

“Until something better comes along,” Eric added.

They all stared at me, waiting.

“They call me Cash,” I said.

P
art of the job description for a
Navy SEAL is demolitions expert. After basic underwater demolition or BUD/s training, Neil excelled in blowing things up. Creating explosions may seem simple, but Neil has told me a little of what’s involved
for safely containing and controlling what goes boom. He told me it was only natural for him to go to work in the dynamic electronics industry. Neil believes in playing to his strengths.

Instead of your typical nine-to-five, which Neil has never done since he joined the navy straight out of high school, on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he works twelve hour shifts, with four hours on Wednesday. I asked him when he was first offered the job if he could deal with the stress of the electronics field. He gave me a look that said,
well at least no one is trying to kill me and I don’t have to worry about blowing myself up.
Neil has his priorities straight.

Sunday is family day in our house, when we take the boys out, sometimes to play football in the park. Neil has to be on my team since I reek like week-old tuna when it comes to sports. Both Josh and Kenny have inherited Neil’s athletic ability, and I can easily envision a future full of athletic scholarships.

Mondays and Tuesdays are grown up time. I do the mom thing, getting the boys up, doling out breakfast, and seeing them off to school. Neil sometimes goes to the gym and occasionally drags me along. I do about ten minutes on the treadmill before giving up and chatting with Sylvia between classes. When Neil is done, we have a leisurely lunch, run some errands, and basically enjoy one another’s company. The boys arrive home around three, and Neil takes his turn helping with homework. Both children had surpassed my meager spelling and math skills in kindergarten.

The downside of my week starts on Wednesday afternoons. Neil works half a shift, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. I like to think I’m an optimist at heart, but when one is forced to trundle about the house, desperate for someone to talk to, one goes a little nutty.  

When Neil was away with his SEAL team, I had a hard time keeping my fear at bay, hence my need to scrub every available surface, wash every stitch of clothing, and cook for thirty while feeding three. I would take my casseroles and pies down to the Veterans’ shelter, where I knew they wouldn’t go to waste. Military spouses often develop a coping mechanism; mine happens to put Martha Stewart to shame. My anxiety has abated somewhat now that my husband is no longer being shot at, but the paranoia is crazy-glued to my mind. I scrub the house down every evening and play games with Kenny and Josh, but there is always a part of my brain that frets over finances and mulls over statistics of traffic accidents. That’s a problem when you lose someone you love at an early age, you never quite shake the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop.

I’d made a mistake by telling Sylvia about all this. Her good intentions aside, there was no doubt in my mind that cleaning the Kline’s house wouldn’t be my reprieve. I’m still not sure why I decided to take the job. I puzzled all day on Wednesday and tossed all night, but Thursday arrived before I could figure a way out of it.

I pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of ratty jeans, the comfortable kind with bleach stains marring the denim, and stuffed my hair under one of Neil’s SEAL caps. As per Sylvia’s suggestion, lunch for the boys was prepared the night before, so I fixed some oatmeal before rousting the kids. Neil was in the shower, so I set about gathering cleaning supplies. Not knowing what the Kline’s had in stock, I grabbed a few essentials from my own war pantry. I hadn’t cashed the five-hundred dollar check yet, mostly because I still didn’t want to go through with this.

Neil sauntered into the kitchen, took one look at me, and grinned. “You really don’t want to do this, do you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sipping my third cup of coffee, I noticed the tremors in my hands and quickly put it down. “What makes you say that?”

Neil tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “It’s either the dark circles under your eyes, or the crazed look in them.”

“It’ll be fine.” I waved him off. “Do I look all right?”

“Couldn’t find a maid’s uniform?”

That did it.

“You know as well as I do that I’m not a maid! I’m like some kind of peasant woman ordered to clean the great lord’s feudal castle. A gnarled old hag, brought out to do the washing and to scrub the blood from the floors! I’m the Laundry Hag!” My arms flailed as I ranted at my poor, put-upon husband, who couldn’t seem to wipe the dopey grin off his face.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, searching for the inner calm that had saved me from insanity while Neil was saving the world.

“The Laundry Hag. I like it. It’s definitely memorable.”

I opened one eye. “What?”

“That should be the name of your business. The Laundry Hag Cleaning Services.”

“Who said I’m going to start a business?”

“Well, I just figured since you took the job that you’d open a full scale business, rather than clean the Kline’s house a few times and go push day old hotdogs around at the seven eleven. You know, ask for references and pick up a few more clients.”

He was serious. I stared into his honest, hazel green eyes but found no trace of a cruel joke. “Those aren’t my only options; I
do
have a business degree.”

Neil snorted.

“What?”

“I don’t want to get into a fight with you, Maggie. Yes, you do have a business degree. And now you have a job. It may not be one of your favorite things, but you can always quit, anytime you feel the urge, just up and go.”

I knew what he was trying to do. Neil discovered early on in our relationship that I don’t perform well when I feel cornered. Neil was giving me some breathing room and shining a light on my escape tunnel. We both knew that as long as the out clause remained intact, I’d walk through flaming piles of goose crap to garner a few extra dollars for my family.

The boys charged in and began devouring mass quantities of oatmeal.

“Hey, guys, you remember what we talked about last night? You have to get yourself on the bus and….”

Josh gave me an eye roll that only an adolescent boy can give his worry-wart mother. “We know you’re right up the street if we need you.”

“And you have my—”

“Cell phone number if we need it,” Kenny chimed in around a mouthful of oatmeal.

Well, gee whiz, boys, don’t try so hard to make me feel appreciated.

Neil, as always, made up for it. “Go get ’em, slugger,” he whispered in my ear before giving me a pre-game slap on the butt. Or maybe he was copping a feel.

I gathered my cleaning paraphernalia and loaded everything into my nondescript white van. This was not one of the typical minivans which had spawned in suburbia like the swallows of Capistrano. This was a full sized white monstrosity which averaged about twelve miles to the gallon and sported a nasty rust spot on the rear quarter panel. I bought the van a few months before Neil left the navy at an automotive charity auction. I’d been the only bidder, which I guess is a very accurate illustration of how bad the vehicle appeared. Neil likes to call it the White Cloud of Death, although I’ve yet to run anyone over with it. That skunk on the drive from Virginia didn’t count, and he’d definitely had the last word.

The engine sputtered to life, and I backed slowly out of the driveway,
very
slowly to avoid hitting anything in my blind spot. Like another house. Despite being the size of an aircraft carrier, the van was a pretty smooth ride, even though I wasn’t about to get ‘hey baby-ed’ at any traffic lights. I’d put in a few storage nets, but the box with my Swiffer duster and grab-it dry floor mop slid against the back of my seat as I took the sharp curve down to the Kline’s driveway. There, a new problem faced me. Where to park?

The tree-lined circular drive in front of the house was freshly blacktopped; I caught a whiff of the stuff they’d used to seal it. There was a parking space in front of the garage, but I didn’t want to block anyone in. I sighed and put the White Cloud of Death into reverse, backed down the driveway, and parked half in a ditch behind the mailbox.

Getting all of my cleaning supplies up to the front door took two trips, but I’ve always been compulsively early, so it was five minutes to nine when I rang the bell. Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
echoed throughout the cavernous entryway, only slightly muffled through the door. It figured they wouldn’t have a ding-dong chime, too pedestrian. Footsteps melted in with the final notes, and I blanked my expression as the door opened.

“Good morning,” I said in my professional voice.

Alessandra Kline’s long-sleeved yellow wrap dress did nothing to embellish her gaunt frame. Her thin-lipped scowl told me someone had done number two in her Wheaties.

“The help uses the back entrance,” she informed me before shutting the door in my face.

I blinked several times, wondering if that had really happened. Where was the apologetic woman who had penned the letter of regret? I took the check out of my pocket and was very tempted to shove it under the door. She’d have to live with her bacteria-ridden sink and grime-encrusted tile. I watched the White Cloud of Death drip oil on the driveway and felt a bit better. I could always buy a new car with this extra money, one with more than two seats.

“Okay, Maggie, you can leave, anytime you want to.” I spoke Neil’s words aloud, and it gave me the courage to haul my two loads of cleaning supplies to the back of the house. I knocked on the kitchen door.

“You’re late,” Alessandra Kline informed me as she stepped aside to admit me to the kitchen.

I looked at the wall clock, and sure enough, it was two minutes past nine. I opened my mouth to respond but I closed it. I’d be damned if I’d dragged all this stuff up here and then had to turn around and drag it home without using it. I still had a shred or two of pride, so I wasn’t about to apologize either.

Mrs. Kline didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by my silence. She turned to the work island, and I had to tamp down my kitchen envy. I hadn’t seen this room on my last visit and I stared in awe at the marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was, in a word, mag-frigging-nificent.

But it could definitely use a good cleaning.

A ring of grime marred the sink, and an assortment of crumbs loitered under the maple cabinets. The floor appeared relatively decent, but I knew how to make it shine.

“I see you’ve brought your own materials,” Mrs. Kline said, waving a hand at my stockpile. “For now, I’d like you to clean the kitchen, the bathrooms, and the laundry room. We’re in between cooks at the moment, so you’ll be alone. My husband’s office is strictly off limits, and our housekeeper takes care of the bedrooms and living areas. I have a few errands to run, so lock up behind yourself when you’ve finished and leave your bill on the counter.”

My bill?

“Um, Mrs. Kline, I know we haven’t discussed my fee but—”

Alessandra cut me off. “Do a decent job, and I’ll pay whatever you feel is adequate. I have quite a few acquaintances who I will gladly recommend you to if I’m sufficiently impressed.” She spun on her heel and marched toward the front of the house.

Well that was demeaning. Alessandra Kline definitely had a knack for putting people in their place. I guess I was supposed to feel grateful at the offer of more cleaning jobs that I didn’t want, but I’d left my enthusiasm in the White Cloud of Death.

I set to work scrubbing and disinfecting the sink and countertops. I used rubber gloves to clean out the oven and wipe down the appliances until they shone. I could almost hear Mrs. Kline’s voice:
I want to see my face in the oven.
For once, I agreed with her. I’d like to see her face in the oven too, preferably with the temperature set on broil.

I found a scummy mop in the pantry closet but the grimy thing would do more harm than good, so I broke out a rag and polished the hardwood floor. I hummed to myself while I worked, because despite the lunacy of it, I enjoy cleaning. The feeling of accomplishment, of seeing a room gleam in invitation and the knowledge that I had made it so, was always worth the elbow grease. Plus, cleaning only requires a quarter of my attention, so my mind will often wander in other directions.

I imagined my husband naked on a beach, beckoning me with a Margarita and a smile. The citrus smell of disinfectant added to my tropical fantasy. Warm sun, hot man, oh yeah.

Now this is where my mind belonged, in the gutter right outside La-la land.

I moved onto the laundry room and scrubbed around the outline of the washer and dryer. Most people don’t realize how bad it can get under there until they move. I’ve helped many military families prepare to sell so I know all the tricks. I thought about Neil’s declaration that he liked the Laundry Hag title and decided I did too. He was right, it was definitely memorable.