The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #2 Swept under the Rug

by Jennifer L. Hart

  “This is his wife!” I yelled in outrage pointing to Sylvia. Damn it all, someone needed to shout.

  The brunette blanched and I shot a scud-missile at her with my eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you that you perform sexual favors in a public place with a guy you barely know? Don’t you value yourself? Aren’t you worth more than a quickie on the sly with a lying pig? What would your mother think?”

  She opened and closed her mouth like a fish.

  “Maggie,” Sylvia pleaded, but I wasn’t done. Some things need attention in the here and now. I whirled on Eric.

  “And you! I actually thought you had a few brain cells to rub together. What kind of insensitive ass-muppet betrays his gorgeous wife for a five second orgasm with an overly-teased piece of fluff?”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Why don’t you stay out of my business?” A warning threaded through Eric’s tone.

  Sylvia hadn’t said a word other than my name and continued to tug halfheartedly on my arm. Other people had ceased their workouts to watch the spectacle. Poor Sylvia. And I had to don my crazy hat, bringing more attention to the situation. The mortification written across her face convinced me.

  “That’s a mighty fine idea.” I whirled on my heel and marched off to the front desk. “I want to cancel my membership,” I announced to the tanned Adonis manning the phones.

  “Uh…well, there’s a form you need to fill out and—”

  I waved a hand, practically bonking him on the beak. “Whatever. Just as long I can register a complaint with the owner.”

  “A complaint about what?”

  “Unsanitary conditions in the ball room.”

  * * * *

  I asked Sylvia to come to my house for a bit, but deep down I knew she craved alone time, and wasn’t surprised when she refused. With any luck, she’d bounce back and set her life straight by changing the locks on her front door before Eric came home. I’d already offered to send Neil to the local hardware store on her behalf.

  “Hey gang, Mom’s home!” Neil stood and stretched his back. I staggered over the threshold of our humble abode. As was custom, two backpacks, three baskets of unfolded linens and a pile of mail awaited my attention in the miniscule entryway which doubled as our foyer. The new coat of sage paint I’d applied a few days earlier still smelled fresh and Neil had finally hung the family pictures I’d been hounding him about.

  “Good workout?” Neil dropped a kiss on the top of my head and I stifled the urge to fall into his arms and sob. Two adrenaline spikes and more surprises and self-doubt than I’d wanted to count in the past ten hours made stringing a sentence together damn near impossible.

  “Mom, Josh is in the bathroom and he won’t come out!” Kenny’s words were punctuated with violent pounding. “Come on, dweeb, I gotta go!”

  “Kenny, use ours for the love of Pete!” Neil’s voice was tinged with exasperation.

  “How long has he been in there?”

  Neil glanced at the mantel clock below his big screen T.V., where he paused an episode of Deadliest Catch. “Almost an hour.”

  “Is he sick? Vomiting? Have you called the doctor yet? I heard there’s a stomach bug going around—”

  I cut myself off and headed for the kitchen where the emergency phone numbers resided, but Neil tugged me back by the shirt.

  “Maggie, he’s not sick, he’s twelve. Twel-ve, as in adolescent, pre-pubescent twelve.”

  I blinked a few times and Neil chucked me under the chin then locked his gaze with mine in silent communion. I stared into the hazel depths and the light dawned.

  “Cripes, not yet.” I sagged onto my ugly yet practical barstools and the urgency to do something fled. “I’m not ready for this.”

  “Really Uncle Scrooge, this is nothing you need to do anything about.” Neil stood behind me and massaged the tension from my neck and shoulders.” He’s getting older, he has a girlfriend—”

  “No he doesn’t.” I shook my head and shrugged out from under his hold.

  “That girl who was here at Thanksgiving, Olivia.”

  “There’s nothing official, they just chat online sometimes.”

  Neil cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at me. “Kids don’t meet at a sock hop, then share a root beer float at the local soda shop anymore, Maggs. Communicating online is dating to the next generation.”

  “I was born in the seventies, Neil. And my first date tried to sell me stolen lawn gnomes he’d filched from the church rummage sale.”

  He stared at me for a beat, then doubled over in laughter. I’m pretty sure he believed I’d made that up. I sighed. Truth can be stranger than fiction.

  Once Neil got control of himself, he resumed the shoulder rub in silence. Obviously, he thought I was a few yachts shy of a boat show. He just didn’t get the mother-to-adopted son dynamic. It seemed like a few days ago, Josh had been a solemn, wide-eyed toddler in need of a mother’s unconditional love. And now he was growing up, in the bathroom….

  I winced and derailed that train of thought. Neil was right, as usual. This had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Mother Nature, the selfish cow.

  “They’ve been fighting more lately, over space and privacy. It’s probably time to give Josh his own room.” Apparently Neil decided to keep the bombs falling before I could fully regroup. My life was changing too fast and I didn’t cotton to change very well. Upheaval was one guaranteed ingredient to turn the mild-mannered Laundry Hag into a belligerent, frothing beast.

  My wrath focused on Neil, the calm eye in the center of my category five turmoil. The man didn’t get worked up about anything and while this usually provided a good balance in our marriage, right now he was pissing me off.

  I blanked my expression. “If that’s what you think is best.”

  His eyebrows drew together to form a dark V. “Don’t do this, Maggie.”

  Tapping my inner southern Belle, I smiled absently and patted his arm. “You always know what to do, so I defer to your superior intellect.”

  He groaned and dropped his chin to his chest. Take that, hot stuff!

  Neil hated when I didn’t fight back almost as much as I hated loosing every argument we had. Granted, sometimes we’d fight, he’d win and then I’d go my merry way, doing as I pleased. Typically though, I wanted to please him before myself so arguing was always a win-win scenario for Neil. Not arguing, however childish it may seem, gave me a bit of a boost. My husband is not the type of man to yell at a woman, especially a non-confrontational woman. I always stopped short of bring tears into the game, but every so often I needed an edge, a way to make him understand my level of frustration.

  The patronizing tone took all the fight out of Neil. His shoulders rounded and he leaned back against the counter. He didn’t say anything and I got up to fetch a glass of water, just to give myself something to do.

  “I set up an appointment with a marriage counselor for tomorrow.”

  The water slid down the wrong pipe and I choked. “Are you serious?” I wheezed at his profile.

  He didn’t answer me, just stared at the school calendar on the fridge. Neil had mentioned going to a marriage counselor a few months back, but I thought the idea went extinct after the holidays. Granted, we had problems and miscommunications, but to actually go to therapy like our relationship was falling apart….

  Unbidden, the image of Eric and his bimbo in the ball room flashed and I cringed. No doubt, I’d been born with some sort of fornicator locator, because I always seem to walk in on people having sex. As if that isn’t enough, it was always people having sex who shouldn’t be having sex, at least with each other. I studied my handsome husband and flinched at the stress lines around his eyes. Guilt flayed me for my self-centeredness. He deserved more from me. A few hours time out of my crazy life might not be a bad thing and deep down, I was afraid if I didn’t acquiesce to this, one day my fornicator locator might steer me to Neil. My heart couldn’t take that kind
of beating.

  “Okay, I’ll be sure to clear my schedule.”

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  “Maggie, dear, it’s Laura.” Despite the widespread induction of caller ID, my mother-in-law always insisted on identifying herself to me when she phoned, as if the sound of her voice wasn’t enough to whip up a healthy dose of dread in my bowels.

  She’d never once invited me to call her Mom. Never made the effort to nurture any kind of relationship with her only daughter-in-law, no matter how far out of my way I went to please her. I dealt with her because I had to, for Neil and the boys. Family obligation really stinks sometimes.

  “How are you, Laura?” I strove to keep a distant and polite note in my voice, but I’m not big on hiding my emotions. Holding stuff in gives people ulcers.

  I’d picked up the phone on the way to the mailbox and the winter air stole the breath from my lungs. The second week in February and at least another month of daytime highs slightly above freezing. I really missed Virginia Beach.

  “I’ve been better, with this new partner at the firm driving me to distraction. They get younger every year and the inexperience shows. Holding a sweaty hand and telling the newest pimple-faced hire that it’ll all be all right is not how I foresaw spending my golden years.”

  I couldn’t picture my mother-in-law holding anyone’s hand unless it was to keep him still while she latched onto his jugular.

  “However, that’s another matter. The reason I’m calling is to invite you to a luncheon downtown on Thursday.”

  I held the phone away from my ear and scowled at it. No way did I hear that right. “Come again?”

  “It’ll be a decent-size event for a friend of mine who is retiring. Right down the street from Beacon Hill.”

  “You want me to go to a luncheon? With you?” The questions sounded even more stupid than I’d imagined, but in my defense, my mother-in-law brings out the worst in me. The last time she’d introduced me to friends of hers, I’d been detained by the police after some yahoo off-ed a man and dumped his body in my wheelbarrow. Even if I wasn’t a devoted stay-at-home-mom and a cleaning lady to boot, I figured Laura wouldn’t show me off. Must be the bumpkin stamp on my forehead.

  “Yes…. dear…. A luncheon….” The answer came slowly, as if Laura was communicating with the squirrelly village idiot. She said dear the way some people say dumb-ass.

  Scowling, I rolled my head around on my shoulders, as if understanding would fall into place with enough centripetal force.

  “I will email you the time and address. You can come early and pick me up at the house. Be sure to wear something appropriate, none of your flashier get-ups.”

  I blinked, but didn’t respond. Neil once said his mother issued more orders than all the BUD/s instructors he’d had during training to become a SEAL. While her words might have been camouflaged as a request, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d been appointed for the task.

  “I’ll have to check my schedule before I can commit to anything,” I hedged, but there was no way I’d agree to her whims until I figured out the why of it. “Neil and I have some stuff going on and I promised—”

  “What sort of ‘stuff’?” Suspicion coated her tone.

  For an instant, my inner smart-aleck wanted to retort ‘wild monkey sex,’ but I came to my senses in time. Laura made it blatantly obvious that she didn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Her loss. I was simply glad Neil hadn’t inherited her superiority complex.

  “Oh you know, some post-holiday shopping, a few appointments we’ve been putting off, things like that.” I purposefully kept my answer vague because I didn’t want Laura’s take on our seeing a marriage counselor. Of course, she’d think it was my fault and do her best to make me feel like a steaming pile of manure.

  “I see. Well, I would hate to hold you up from your busy social life.” The frost in her voice chilled me more than the Massachusetts’ winter. The phone clicked in my ear. Another lesson on how to win friends and influence in-laws brought to you by Maggie Phillips.

  The snow had melted a bit on our driveway, but more was predicted for the next day. How did Yankees deal with this every stinking year?

  I scuttled inside and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Flipping through the mail, I sorted bills from junk and left Neil’s Men’s Fitness magazine on his end table.

  Another fight had ensued when Neil realized I’d cancelled our memberships to the gym. Now he was stuck running at the high school track and working out with free weights in our garage to keep fit and he wasn’t happy about it.

  Depressed, I sat down at the computer and checked my email. Several requests had come in for my cleaning services. I sent the auto response Josh had created for me, letting the client know my rates had changed. When I’d first been lured into this cleaning business, I’d worked for way too little and consequently, become the Hag everyone wanted to hire. By charging more, I’d turned off some potential clients, but also made a bit of money last month. I still had to turn people down because I had yet to hire a new cleaning partner.

  Now what? Neil was at work, picking up some overtime before our 1:00 session with the marriage guru and the boys wouldn’t be back from school for hours. I’d knocked on Sylvia’s door twice already and she either wasn’t home or refused to answer. Eric’s SUV hadn’t been parked in the driveway, so I gathered he was lying low like the snake he resembled.

  Ruminating on Eric and Sylvia’s marriage was not a healthy way to spend my time. After a few moments, I decided to take a page out of Neil’s book and exercise my troubles away.

  Every pair of sweats I owned had at least two bleach stains on them, so I snagged a pair of my husband’s track pants, rolling them at the waist a few times so I wouldn’t trip over the cuffs. Donning crappy sneakers and an extra sweatshirt, gloves and Neil’s SEAL cap, I checked out my appearance then wished I’d resisted. I looked like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Hopefully Bill Murray wouldn’t show up and zap me into another dimension.

  Grabbing my keys and cell phone, I locked the house then hit the streets. Our neighborhood is built on a series of rolling hills and the bright sun sparkled off the snow-covered rooftops below. Midmorning on a weekday, no neighbors were out and about since I’m the only stay-at-home mom in the community. Just as well, since I didn’t particularly want any witnesses as I stumbled and ran.

  Jogging has never been my forte and I lasted maybe a minute before I decreased my unsteady lope to a brisk walk. My mother had always said I was one of those girls who couldn’t do two things at once, and bless her skeptical soul, she was right. Neither my irascible brother nor I could walk and chew gum, let alone jog and think. Since I didn’t want to think about Josh locking himself in the bathroom, Eric getting serviced by the Fran Dresher look-alike or my husband thinking our marriage needed an intervention, I picked up my pace again. My muscles were strong, built from years of vigorous cleaning and frenetic mothering, but I couldn’t seem to get my breathing under control.

  Stumble, step, wheeze, stumble step wheeze. I focused on inhaling through my nose, shoving oxygen down into my lungs by force of will. After another indeterminable amount of time—maybe forty seconds—I slowed again and gasped for breath. This was ridiculous, my husband could run a five minute mile and he was pushing forty! Granted, he had the benefit of BUD/s training, the hardcore physical conditioning required for a man to become a Navy SEAL, but Neil was a natural athlete and made his health a priority.

  I struggled for air, my gaze landed on the Kline mansion situated on top of the hill. Last I knew, Mr. Kline had put the house up for sale and was off being strange in some other neighborhood. He was a decent, if wacky man, but I wished I’d never met him. My life had spiraled out of control the moment I’d set foot in his house and I wanted it back.

  Determination burned in the pit of my stomach and I started off again. I was tired of my pity party, tired of being the laughingstock of the Hudson P.D. Tired of fretting about my f
amily and friends, tired of jumping every time a door slammed or a car backfired. That sick S.O.B had already taken enough in his quest for vengeance, and he couldn’t hurt me anymore. I needed to get some control over my life. Neil had told me the men who made it all the way through the zealous training and into the SEAL teams shared one common trait, absolute resolve. They saw the Budweiser pin at the end and unflinchingly worked to attain it.

  Well I wanted to be fit and fabulous, or at least be able to run a freaking mile if I wanted. My cell phone rang and I praised the Lord and slowed to retrieve it from my pants pocket. Rome wasn’t built in a day after all.

  “Hello?” I rasped into the phone. Crap, one would think I’d been having a smoking contest with the Marlboro Man.

  “Maggie my love, where are you?” Leo sang into the phone. Ever upbeat and energetic, Leo is a housekeeper for my in-laws and my best bud, after Neil, for close to a decade. He’s worked for Laura for almost as long and is the only person I know who calls her a gorgon to her face. Why she hasn’t fired him is still a mystery, but I suspect it has something to do with his triple chocolate cake. Gorgons need to eat, too.

  “You’re in a good mood.” I observed.

  “Why talk when you can sing? Why walk when you can dance?” Leo sighed dreamily and it clicked into place.

  “Uh oh, you met someone. Where and what’s he like? Come on Leo, dish.”

  “Perhaps I’m happy just because the sun is shining and here I have a few minutes to talk to my very best friend. Does everything in the world need to be about a man?”

  “Yes,” we answered at the same time and laughed.

  “So come on, get to the juicy stuff. What does he look like?” No man would ever be good enough for my pal, not only is he a total peach on a fast track for sainthood, he looks a bit like a mature Jude Law, only less broody. Chances were good that I’d feel the same way about both Kenny and Josh when they started dating, so smothering Leo was good practice.