The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet

by Jennifer L. Hart

  “Until something better comes along,” Eric added.

  They all stared at me, waiting.

  “They call me Cash,” I said.

  Chapter Three

  Part 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 wa
s 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.

  The Kline’s house had four bathrooms. One downstairs powder room—in pretty good shape in spite of the rose wallpaper and repugnant air freshener—two upstairs bathrooms that required some serious hands and knees scrubbing, and that awesome master bathroom, which needed the shower doors and mirrors cleaned in the worst way.

  I worked diligently as if cleaning my own bathroom in preparation for the in-laws’ arrival. I would have to do that over the weekend as well as call my wayward brother and invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. Marty was sometimes hard to reach, since he made a habit of moving wherever the wind blew him. He’d had a cell phone for a while, but it was lost in the tide of the Hudson River, in what I can only imagine was an act of drunken brilliance.

  I checked my phone for the tenth time, half hoping Kenny and Josh would call to let me know they’d made it to school without incident. I had to call the school as soon as I made it home and set up an appointment with Josh’s teacher to discuss the Hemingway debacle. I felt sure I could convince the woman to let him make up the assignment.

  With that thought in my head, I scanned the master bathroom and with a nod of satisfaction headed back to the kitchen. It was about twelve-thirty, so I estimated about three and a half hours at fifteen dollars an hour. It seemed a little steep, but Mrs. Kline told me to name my price, and for the dog’s abuse I’d received, $53.50 seemed about right. I left the total on the counter along with my phone number in case she wanted to call me again. Never let it be said that Maggie Phillips was a quitter.

  I backed the van up to the garage and loaded my cleaning supplies. Despite the sour start to the day, I was in a good mood. Paul Simon came on the radio, and I called him Al all the way home. I let myself into the house and dumped some prepackaged salad into a bowl with shredded cheese and way more than a serving of Thousand Island dressing.

  The phone rang.

  “Where are you?” Neil asked me.

  “Uh, sweetie, you called the house,” I pointed out

  “Yes. So where’s your cell?”

  Oops. “I guess I left it in the Kline’s bathroom.”

  “Josh’s teacher called here saying she was unable to reach you and she really needed to set up an appointment with us.”

  Oh, crud muffins. This stupid job was already interfering with my career.

  “I’m all over it,” I told him then called the school and set up an appointment with Mrs. Martin for Monday afternoon. Next, I called Marty’s current girlfriend and left a message on her machine inviting them both to Thanksgiving dinner. I called the Kline’s, but only got the machine. I ate my salad and chugged a root beer before taking a much needed shower. I dialed Mrs. Kline again, but still no answer. With some groceries to pick up, I set out in the van.

  I can safely say that I have grocery shopping down to a science. There was a time in my misspent youth where I was actually intimidated by supermarkets. Overwhelmed by the gads of products which all seemed to serve the same purpose, and the sale stickers were always mixed up, so my bill was much higher than
what I’d estimated. Since I married Neil, I’ve developed a system which may be a bit anal retentive, but is effective nonetheless.

  Coupon cutting happens every Sunday. I take stock of the fridge and pantry and make note on anything we’re low on or out of. I plan general dinners for the week, i.e. chicken on Sunday, beef on Monday, that sort of thing. Then, I hit the store, starting with produce and working my way through the list. I usually leave a few dollars aside for impulse buys, and overall, I have our family grocery budget set to five hundred dollars a month. If there’s any money left over, I treat myself to a trashy paperback. Like I said, it’s a science.

  I brought the bags out to the van and loaded them in the cargo nets. That left more cleaning supplies free to roam and me smacking my forehead for not unloading them in the first place. On my way home, a white corvette turned up the Kline’s driveway. I followed it in hopes of retrieving my phone.

  “Maggie!” Francesca Carmichael called to me. “I thought you were coming this morning.”

  “I was here, but I forgot my cell. Do you know if anyone’s home?”

  Frannie shrugged one silk clad shoulder. “I’m not sure, but I was coming by to see if Sandra wanted to go into Boston with me. There’s a new spa that I’m dying to try.”

  My experience with the spa treatment was limited to an NC-17 fantasy starring mocha flavored oil rubs and Neil as the cabana boy who compliments my beauty.

  “That sounds, um, nice?” was my weak reply.

  “Heaven on Earth!” Francesca corrected me and extracted a key ring from her Prada handbag. “I desperately need an herb wrap and I can’t remember the last time I had a pedicure.”

  Well I had her there because I could easily remember my last pedicure. It occurred in my last life.

  Francesca opened the door. “Where did you leave it?”

  “The master bathroom, I think.”

  We ascended the stairs together, Frannie illustrating the finer points of professional massage.

  “It’s so much better when you pay a professional to do it. That way you don’t have to worry about compensation. My ex-husband would only give me a massage if he was going to get sex afterwards. It was positively codependent.”