Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  As he turned onto Southgate he eyed his house in the distance, immediately noticing Marcy’s car, a red Mustang, parked in the spacious driveway. Not a flake of snow on it or near it. The vehicle had been cleaned thoroughly. Marcy had never been the type to wipe off her car so extensively. She would always wipe away enough to see ahead of her and behind her, nothing more. Or, on rare occasions, she wouldn’t leave the house at all. She could run her small company, selling jewelry and cosmetics, from almost any-where; she earned only a small fraction of what her husband earned. And before she married him, almost ten years ago, she had been a department store clerk, earning nowhere near her current income. All that mattered to her and her husband now, though, was that she was keeping herself busy, doing a job that excited her, meeting dynamic people, putting a little extra cash in her pocket—living her long-held goal of personal and domestic independence.

  Seeing everything had been made clean and safe was ordinarily Broderick’s first priority, enough to put a smile on his face as he pulled into the driveway, realizing he could just come home and unwind. Not having had sufficient snow to warrant calling their regular snow contractor, Broderick had decided earlier in the day to let the sun do the melting.

  Opening the front door, he saw Marcy sitting on the couch, her long legs curled under her, looking over a few sheets of paper. She greeted him, blowing him a kiss. She attempted to get up but Broderick rushed over to her and kissed her lips. “Don’t get up,” he said. “Relax.”

  “How sweet,” replied Marcy. “Good day today?”

  “Very. Disposed of the Walker case. Thirty years old, you’d think he would have understood the meaning of ‘Private Property: No Trespassing.’ Anyway, what may I ask has you so engrossed?”

  “Luke’s contract,” she said, beaming. “I can see why he gets so much work. His prices are among the fairest I’ve seen, not to mention this extensive list of references.”

  “Yeah, I was impressed by him too. Seemed very honest, knowledgeable, detail-oriented.” Broderick placed his briefcase on the floor beside the end table and draped his jacket over the dining room chair, an inquisitive look on his face. “So,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and standing at ease, “how did you manage to get him over here?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. I saw him at the hardware store in town. He was picking up supplies. He said he had picked up another job after he landed ours. Good for him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Not two hours later he shows up here, cleans off my car, shovels off the front, salts everything, and tells me that’s to show his commitment to a new customer. Times are tough, he said, and he likes going to great lengths to prove his worth, how serious he is.”

  “How nice of him,” said Broderick, loosening his tie, rolling up his lavender shirt sleeves. “I wish there were more like him. I’m tired of dealing with lazy, inconsiderate contractors who don’t follow through. Everybody’s been mistreated by at least one. It seems to me that we’ve found one of the few good ones.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, Brod. Luke said he’ll be here in the morning to get things going.”

  Getting out of his truck the next morning, Luke spotted one of the neighbors down the street; she waved at him. He returned her greeting and, with toolbox in hand, made his way to the front door, retrieving the key from his back pocket. The living room seemed much bigger than he remembered it, expansive and immaculate, filled with high-end merchandise: big-screen TV, leather couches, lavish chandelier dangling majestically from a vaulted ceiling, custom-made end tables and coffee table, and, on every wall, works of abstract art—the collection conceivably worth a small fortune. Having spent all his career working in lower-middle class houses, the Fosters’ house was an auspicious step forward for him and for his struggling business, if he could get his priorities in order and stay levelheaded. Though the circumstances should have uplifted him, instead he was feeling inexplicably inferior, inadequate, nothing like the stable everyman he once thought himself. Maybe taking this job, in this affluent neighborhood, at this precarious stage of vulnerability, had not been the wisest course of action. Still, irrespective of how he felt, he had a job to do.

  Placing his cumbersome toolbox on the floor, Luke opened it and pulled out a pair of protective covers for his boots. He looked around the capacious kitchen, a kitchen quite similar to those he’d seen in magazines and on home improvement television shows: a show-kitchen. Every-thing—counters, cabinets, floor, table—was sparkling and clean, as if never used. He opened the refrigerator door and took an inventory: Every shelf was full; the freezer, too, fully stocked. Though he had not been given permission to help himself to food or drink, he grabbed a bottle of beer from the second shelf, various brands to choose from, a minimum of five at first glance. He popped off the cap, swigged from it, taking immense pleasure in the taste, unfazed by the early hour, by the slim possibility of potentially being found out. Moving on, he went through the living room and the main hall, then climbed the steps to the second floor, making mental note of the custom-carved wood banister, the brilliant sheen, the elegantly carpeted steps, the ornate designs of the posts—all amounting to an extraordinary sum—beyond affordability for any middle-class household. Having arrived at the second-floor landing, he looked left and right, trying to recall which room was the master bedroom, even though he’d been shown the quarters—his somewhat warped train of thought, his first look at sheer extravagance, had temporarily distracted him, coloring his thinking. The room straight across from him—the one with the flowerpot mounted on the decorative door, a beautiful bouquet brimming over the rim (a woman’s touch, no doubt) seemed the obvious choice. Along the hall he eyed the series of family photos, noting the hearty smiles, the family’s hearty glow of prosperity, their latent confidence, their borderline smugness. Regarding these photos, he mumbled, “Life couldn’t be better for you, huh? Try my life. See how it fits.” He came to the walk-in closet—his jobsite. Opening the louvered doors, he saw each and every shelf stacked with clothes and shoes, each hanger holding something stylish, the floor, though organized, covered with more of everything—more than his wife ever had. This, he realized, would be his job, as stated in the contract: add more shelving, more hanger space, more, more, more… more reason for Marcy to indulge herself again with another shopping spree. She wanted extra space, a task which, for him, meant a medium-range profit. Not a great profit by any means. He had given an estimate that would get his foot in the door, as always, allowing him to demonstrate his superior craftsmanship and acquire more jobs in this prime area, where all contractors competed to establish a more permanent footing. From early on in his days as a tradesman, his work had been praised; his work ethic, his personality had earned confidence, respect. Despite his long-standing reputation, he couldn’t convince himself that this promising new job was beneficial to his mind, his conscience, his future outlook. He felt as though all around him were reminders of his lifetime of irreversible failure. He felt himself slipping into an unforgivable place, gradually undergoing emotional changes he never imagined possible. He struggled to shake off the mounting sense of defeat. Exhausting years of the daily grind, of working to keep his company in the black, of scrambling for customers, of just eking by, of long, grueling days and strenuous nights, of feeling marginalized—all these hardships had un-expectedly been called to mind, agitating him. Try to stay focused, he told himself—but to no avail.

  Luke took a random article of clothing off the rack—a red cocktail dress. Appraising it, he ran his fingers down the soft, silky material, picturing for a moment Marcy Foster’s curves filling it out rather than his wife’s, a borderline unconscionable scenario. He had never thought of Marcy in such a way, until now, until he had been given a reason out of nowhere to wonder if sex with a woman of wealth and standing was any different or any better than with a woman of none. Doubtless he adored Natalie, a fine-hearted attractive woman herself—one who had never hidden from
her husband the fact that she often fantasized about popular movie stars and musicians—but considering his present mindset, cooking up an innocent fantasy about Marcy Foster was neither illegal nor immoral nor harmful. Perchance it was just a convenient remedy for his psychological burden. Nothing more. While immersed in thought, he looked around the room, his eyes roaming from wall to wall, stopping to analyze each and every picture, each and every trivial detail, anything that caught his attention… anything that might uncloud his thinking. But he couldn’t stop himself, his mind became cluttered with visualizations he could neither reconcile nor discard soon enough. With dress in hand he approached the bed and placed the dress flat on the mattress, spreading out the garment as if he were a woman inspecting it, deciding whether to wear it. Then, he sat beside the dress and closed his eyes, imagining a number of scenarios with Marcy teasing him. The fantasy was his and his alone. Not a minute later he came out of his trance and put the clothes back in the closet where he’d found them.

  Like any working man, he had to create fringe benefits, had to compensate himself fairly when all else failed to placate him. Many contractors, even the best and most respected, did what Luke had just done. There had always been an unspoken truth between contractor and homeowner: Better not to know what goes on when given the key to another’s home. Luke never once had done anything so dishonest. Never once had he charged exorbitant fees. Never once had he padded the bill. Never once had he turned in second-rate work. Never once had he stolen from his clients. In spite of these attributes, Luke had a part of him, a long-suppressed part, he realized now, which had to be dealt with. He meant no harm, of course. He was neither mentally nor morally vulnerable. He was simply curious—very curious. Now more than ever before; and found that, by engaging in such behavior from time to time, he would either solve his inner turmoil or make peace with the substandard life he had been living.

  The day wore on. Luke had worked diligently, not stopping for lunch or for a smoke break. He knew, in order to keep under wraps his somewhat bizarre change of heart, of behavior, of perspective, he would have to, as always, get jobs done, and done superbly. No room for error, for missteps. Before long he had finished a good portion of the closet, installed larger, sturdier shelves, new lights. For tomorrow he had doors to put on, odds and ends to finish—a half day’s work. On the other hand, had he not gotten absorbed in other matters, matters unrelated to the task at hand, he would have been done already, on to the next gig. He had to get back on track, avoid repercussions. But one more thing came to mind.

  Moving to the night stand, Luke picked up the phone and dialed home. Natalie answered on the third ring. “Hello,” she said, her voice crisp, energetic, temporarily refreshing.

  “Thought I’d check in and say hi. This job’s not bad after all.”

  “That’s good news. How much longer do you think?”

  “I should wrap it up by tomorrow night. I’ve been nonstop since I got here. Hey, you know what, you would love her closets. You could fit our wardrobes in there and still have plenty of room to spare.”

  “That’s funny. Are they nice customers? Are they treating you well?”

  “The usual. Not much to report. Interesting thing—you think I like TV, you should see how many TVs they have—and the size!”

  “Gotta go,” Natalie said, “I really hate to cut you short, I always like hearing your voice during the day, but I’ve got a job interview in an hour. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to get done yourself.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Lots to do. So little time. And good luck today, by the way. Knock ’em dead. Later, Nat.”

  Luke hung up the phone. He remembered having left a gallon of paint in his truck, the same paint to be used on the closet once the construction was done. He left the room and paused in front of the hallway bathroom, the door ajar. Sunbeams filtered through the windows on either side of the hallway, spreading splashes of light across the luxurious carpet. Across from him, on the other side of the railing, a grandfather clock stood guard. As Luke took in his surroundings he felt compelled to roam around further, starting with the bathroom, which dwarfed even his kitchen. He shook his head, scratched his head, reached for the fancy brass door handle, his thoughts ranging uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop himself. He had committed fully to this unusual behavior, regardless of the outcome. A disconnect between right and wrong, ethical and unethical, had transpired, leaving his mind more scattered than ever before, leaving him to ruminate on an unfathomable possibility. Though many of his loyal customers had, over time, likely become riche and more prosperous, Luke couldn’t understand why he hadn’t come upon better times, having labored steadily, assiduously, but forever stagnating. Now, reflecting on his past, analyzing with concern his present, he had every right to feel discontented, wronged, undervalued, underappreciated, unnoticed—victimized by those who lived grandly in the land of plenty. Lately, in recent weeks, with each new job he found himself developing feelings of inadequacy and frustration, not because he was a peeved, disgruntled man, but because the people he was working for today, for example, had surplus disposable income; and here he was, a man who had no choice but to watch every dollar, charging less per negotiation in order to remain competitive, never having achieved the so-called American Dream, one which had eluded him for what seemed an eternity. Wrongs needed to be righted. He would receive his just rewards, even if receiving them would quite possibly change him irreversibly as a result. After all, he thought, being kind, good-hearted, generous, and flexible hadn’t even marginally improved his life.

  The bathroom, spacious and clean, decorated with two-color matching towels by the basin and by the shower, had a pleasant robust odor—like a bouquet of summer flowers in full bloom. Luke could practically taste the scent. The towels, unlike any he had at home, unlike any he’d seen in any ordinary department store, added panache to an already exquisite room. These towels, he presumed, must be for show, although there were none elsewhere in the bathroom. Shaking his head bewilderedly, he turned and faced the medicine cabinet, where he knew he would find a wide variety of paraphernalia. A house so charming and elegant lacked for nothing. During this compulsive search he felt no sense of guilt, no feelings of uneasiness, no concern that he had breached the freedom granted him by his clients. Why stop now? Now was not the time to assess risk, to falter under cowardice, to question what he was becoming. He knew that Natalie had no idea that he, her prideful husband, a professional of unmatched repute, had, only once or twice, snooped around houses during his long career, had gone to enormous lengths to instill within his customers a supreme confidence and trust, only to spoil the sanctity of their home without a second thought. But this was not the first time, either, that he had been forced to cope with the miserable effects of oppression, the same sense that no matter the time and effort invested he seemed destined to remain stuck in a merciless downward spiral. Natalie need not know about his ongoing troubles; they had been compartmentalized for so long—the embarrassment, the hopelessness, the brutal emasculation, too heartbreaking, too destructive to reveal. This conflict had become his to resolve, on his own terms.

  The medicine cabinet was stocked as expected. On the top shelf he came across a box of condoms; he chuckled, smirked. Not because it was shocking to find such an item in such a place, but because he found it hard to believe that Broderick Foster would not want to feel his wife, a woman so ravishingly put-together, a woman who doubtless could have landed any man she wanted, rather than be with someone merely average—money and status notwithstanding. Though the Fosters were wealthy beyond his wildest guess, Broderick himself could not buy better looks, a fact that brought Luke a mild degree of contentment. Marcy, on the other hand, could lose half her beauty and still crush every heart in her path—one of the many thoughts that had gone through Luke’s mind when he fondled her dress. Inspecting the cabinet further, he found various bottles of prescribed medication, all with names he couldn’t pronounce, not without a medical dictionary.
What was their purpose? What could possibly be wrong with these perfect people and their perfect existence? What troubles or stresses could possibly exist in Fosterland, a land without hardship or strife or imbalance? He appraised his reflection in the mirror, finding it almost completely abstract, neutral, a visage failing to depict any recognizable emotion. While contemplating who and what he was, who and what he was destined to be, he came across, sticking out from the top of a magazine on the rack, a hundred-dollar bill. Well, he wondered, how did that get there? Not the wisest place to stash money. He could take Natalie out for a night on the town with that cash—probably have some left over for something else. But he didn’t take it, even though the temptation was unreal, the mere idea justifiable.

  Above the rack was a window. Luke observed the everyday goings-on down the block. Not too much happening, although plenty to observe and analyze. The houses, for instance, were all elegant, modern, pristinely maintained, virtually without imperfections. It was as if each homeowner were on a quest to outdo his neighbor, to make his castle bigger, better, more ostentatious. Suburban competition was not uncommon, not hard to spot. He could imagine what goes through the mind of such well-fed, higher-achieving elitists: What? Mr. Carmichael has a new car? I, Broderick Foster, must buy a bigger one, a pricier one; what? Mr. Constance has a new boat? I, Broderick Foster, must buy a bigger boat, a yacht, in fact. No matter the cost, no matter the fact that I don’t need one, never used one, never had any inclination toward boating or sailing, I, competitive neighbor, must keep up. Luke believed this the undeniable truth, the typical suburban sporting event without victory.

  Luke glanced at his paint-stained watch. Marcy Foster would be home soon. According to the information he’d been given in a recent phone conversation, she usually arrived home by three o’ clock, a few hours before her husband. Broderick’s schedule fluctuated, his wife never knew precisely when he would get in, but he always returned home later than she did. Luke had sufficient time to gather his tools, clean up any mess, put things back in order, and prepare for an explanation of the day’s events. He knew he could have completed the job in one day, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet that demand. Not this time. Nobody was the wiser. What customer, if any, could challenge his expertise, his quality of work, his willingness to outwork, in terms of craft and disposition, every other contractor in the area? He would get one more day on the job, another chance to surreptitiously probe more profoundly into the Fosters’ private life, likely uncovering more about why there were so many pills in the cabinet, among other things. Maybe even Mr. Foster, Mr. Perfect, was having an affair? That was often the case in upper-class families. Money, power, and ego tended to mar rather than enhance domestic bliss. It had never been hard to find the subtle imperfections hiding beneath the smooth, sturdy exterior of prominent people. After all, the rich and powerful, Luke had seen from time to time, often treated marriage as if it were a shoddy, flexible business arrangement, changing the stipulations over time, to suit their needs, their wants, their unquenchable desires. Luke, fortunately, had nothing to worry about with Natalie. They were made to be together. Neither was perfect, but good enough for each other. In any case, Luke would keep his eyes trained and his ears attuned to Broderick Foster—and to other ways of coping with his fractured spirit.