Wife-in-Law

by Haywood Smith

  Must have been a very bad day. Whatever that meant. I had no idea what kind of problems he faced at work. Greg never talked about them. He said it just made him feel worse to rehash the negative.

  “Martini, coming up,” I said. After I delivered that, I retreated to the kitchen. Though Greg often said that a man’s home was his castle, a woman’s kitchen is her domain, so I always found confidence there. Keeping an eye on the martini by his chair, I waited till it was almost gone before transferring the corn and beans into serving dishes.

  Greg loved my fried chicken and pole beans and stewed corn, so surely dinner would cheer him up. I poured his sweet tea and my plain, then lit the candles and said, “Supper’s ready.”

  Looking gorgeously rumpled with his collar open and his tie loosened, Greg took his place, rolling up the sleeves of his pinpoint oxford button-down. Finally, he looked at me. “So, what’s the story with the new neighbors?”

  Uh-oh. Not a topic to cheer him up. “Why don’t we eat first?” I deflected.

  A brittle gleam reflected in his dark eyes. “Why? What’s wrong with the neighbors?”

  When my husband looked at me that way, avoidance only made him angry, so there was nothing to do but spit it out. “They’re hippies.”

  He frowned in disbelief. “Hippies can’t afford to live in Sandy Springs. And anyway, why would they want to?”

  “Beats me.”

  Fork poised, Greg voiced the very thought that occurred to me in that instant. “What if they’re drug dealers?”

  “But this is the suburbs,” I protested, still firm in the belief that our location protected us from such awful things. The South has always lagged behind the social cutting edge—maybe because we’re weaned on the Bible and the importance of our heritage—so the “tune in, turn on” movement was pretty much limited to the go-gos down on Tenth Street.

  Greg took a bite of chicken and mulled on that.

  “You’d think drug dealers would want to blend in,” I went on, “but those two are gonna stick out like a sore thumb out here,” I said. “He looks like that hairy guy from ZZ Top.” We in the South knew all about ZZ Top long before the rest of the country caught on. “And he has tattoos.” I took a bite of corn.

  “What’s she like?” Greg asked, assuming there was a she. In our world, single people didn’t buy houses in the burbs.

  “She looks like a kid. Frizzy red hair, no makeup, freckles.” I leaned closer to confide, “I don’t think they’re even married. She said they’d been ‘together’ since they met at a love-in at Piedmont Park when she was sixteen.”

  Greg’s proper Presbyterian genes got in a wad. “I’m gonna kill the developer. And those agents in the sales office. We have covenants to keep out riffraff.”

  Like me?

  I sighed. “I checked the covenants. There isn’t a ‘no hippies’ clause. Or ‘no tattoos.’ And not a word about having bad furniture.”

  “Damn.” Greg slammed his tea to the table with such force, it sloshed onto my white cutwork cloth. “Just damn.” Glaring into the middle distance, he shoved in a mouthful of beans and chewed with excessive force. When he finished, his eyes narrowed. “Well, there’s certainly a restriction about doing anything illegal. One of my clients is a captain with APD. I’ll have a word with him. Get him to check them out.”

  “Great.” Greg was one of the most connected men I’d ever met, so I gladly entrusted the matter into his capable hands. “But in the meantime,” I cautioned, “it’s our Christian duty to be nice to them. They might not be drug dealers, and they are our only neighbors.”

  “I don’t suppose he plays tennis,” Greg said.

  “I doubt it. He’s a plumber. And his beard would definitely get in the way.”

  “Just damn.” Greg fell silent, focusing on his food for the rest of the meal, with only an occasional burp of profanity between bites.

  Maybe dessert would help a little. He loved my devil’s food cake. So did I, which was why I’d gained fifteen pounds since we married, but Greg said it only made me more voluptuous.

  I waited to pick up his plate till he laid his silverware across it, the signal he was done. “Would you like some coffee? I made your favorite for dessert.”

  He lightened up a little. “Tea’s fine.”

  Sure enough, a big slab of my moist, sweet confection did the trick, and he came out of his funk.

  I cleared the rest of the table while he ate it. Greg had never touched a dirty dish, a matter of pride with me. “Why don’t you go stretch out and watch some TV after you finish?” I suggested over my shoulder as I started loading the dishwasher. When I got no response, I turned to find him frowning again.

  “Honey, come sit down,” he said gently. He never called me honey unless it was something awful. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  My heart contracted to the size of a walnut. Oh, God. Was I going to lose my house? Had they fired him? Was that what had happened at work?

  I don’t remember sitting down, but I did.

  Greg took my hand in his and said, “I had a hell of a day till I opened my mail this afternoon and found out I passed my CPA,” he said as if he was telling me he had cancer, instead of reaching one of his most important goals.

  Thank God, thank God! He hadn’t lost his job. But why wasn’t he bursting with his usual pride of accomplishment?

  “So they’re promoting me, two years early,” he told me with a look of pity.

  “Oh, honey, that’s amazing.” I gave his lips a congratulatory buss. “I’m so proud of you. Nobody passes their CPA the first time. You worked so hard for this.”

  He took a leveling breath, then said, “The bad news is, they want me in Chicago tomorrow.” Tomorrow? For how long? “A new client, and a big one, but the account’s such a mess that our guy up there just quit and walked out, so we fired him.”

  But this was a promotion for Greg. If anybody could slay this dragon, he could, and what a coup that would be. “You’ll be able to handle it,” I said. “I know you will.”

  He glanced to the floor. “It will definitely make me or break me.” His gaze met mine. “The trouble is, I’d thought we’d have at least another year before this happened, time for you to make some friends, so you wouldn’t be all alone out here. I don’t like leaving you in this situation.” He scowled. “Especially with those hippies across the street.”

  “Honey, don’t you worry about me for one instant.” There would be other neighbors soon enough. “I’ll be fine. At least four of the houses on our street are almost finished, and lots more all around us. I’m sure they’ll sell quickly. More people will move in before we know it.”

  I paused, then ventured, “How long will you have to be gone?”

  “Normally, I’d get two weekends a month off,” he said, “but the mess they’ve got up there … it might be longer than that. I’ll just have to see.”

  How would I fill my time without a husband to care for? Greg was adamant that no wife of his would work. “I can do some charity work, meet some people there. Take bridge lessons,” I told myself and him. “Get more active at church. Learn needlepoint,” I said with forced cheer. “I’ll be fine.”

  And I’d make sure his weekends home were memorable. My innards did a flip just thinking about it.

  Grateful, he cupped the side of my head in his palm, stroking my temple with his thumb. “You’re such a trouper. I know you can manage. God knows, you managed worse than this growing up.” For the first time in quite a while, he really saw me. “I’m just sorry that you have to.” His expression sharpened. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m calling the alarm people and having one put in. Top-of-the-line.”

  I still marveled that a man like Greg cared so much about someone like me. “Goodness. I’ll be safe as a bank.”

  “Safer,” he said. He rose, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I think I will watch a little TV. The Braves are on.”

  And once again, all was right with the wor
ld. Except for those hippies.

  The next day, I drove Greg to the airport and kissed him off, then came straight home so the workmen could install the alarm, complete with battery backup and a direct connection to the police and fire departments, plus smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, and a panic button by my bed. Having it made me feel secure.

  It felt a little odd to be alone in our king-sized bed that first night, but I was worn out from cleaning up after the workmen, so I didn’t even make it through Johnny Carson’s opening joke before I fell asleep. It was almost midnight when the phone rang beside the bed.

  I fumbled for the receiver, then said a groggy, “Hullo.”

  “Hey,” Greg answered. “Sorry. Did I wake you up? I forget, it’s an hour earlier here.” His voice sounded weary.

  I rolled over in the dark. “Can’t think of anybody I’d rather have wake me up. How was day one in Chicago?”

  “Worse than I thought,” he confessed. “Turns out the client’s trusted comptroller has been embezzling for years through dozens, maybe hundreds, of dummy accounts. It’ll take me fourteen hours a day to track them all down and assess the loss before the close of the business year. Then I have to devise a more secure set of bookkeeping protocols to reduce the risk of having it happen again.”

  I was touched that he’d finally confided in me about his work. “Wow. Sounds like a job for Superman. Good thing they’ve got you to take care of it.”

  “Thanks. That’s nice to hear,” he said, then yawned. “Whew. I’m beat. Did they get the alarm in?”

  “Yep. The code’s 19481952,” I told him, “the years we were born. I put yours first because it came first.”

  “Good idea.” He yawned again. I could picture him in his hotel room, tie loose, eyes drooping, and I missed him.

  “Did they test it out?” he asked.

  “Did they ever,” I said, remembering the earsplitting racket it made. “You never heard such noise. The hippies probably thought it was a tornado alert.”

  “Good.” He yawned again. “Oh, speaking of the hippies, that police captain said he checked them out, and we don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “How could he be so sure, so fast?” I asked, skeptical.

  “Don’t know, but the guy was adamant. He did say he’d have a patrol car come by to check our house as often as they can, though, just in case. So I guess that’s it.”

  “Okay, then.” I still had my misgivings, but caught myself starting to nod off in the pause that followed.

  “Guess I’d better go,” Greg said. “Want to get into the office by six.”

  “Be sure you eat well, honey,” I told him. “You have to keep up your strength.”

  “I won’t be able to find cooking as good as yours,” he said, “but I’ll make sure to eat.”

  “Sweet dreams,” I told him, just the way I always did when he was there beside me.

  “Sweet dreams.” He hung up, and I went back to sleep, safe in the confines of the alarm system.

  Greg called every night at first, but we quickly ran out of things to tell each other. Apparently, he couldn’t discuss anything else about the client. He was working a killer schedule, and I was keeping busy with the house. Not a lot to talk about there.

  So we lapsed into talking only every few days, which was okay with me, because I knew he was putting in long hours instead of hanging around Chicago alone with nothing to do with his evenings.

  I managed fine the first week, but by Tuesday of the second, I’d run out of things to do. I’d scrubbed my poor house to smithereens, ironed everything I could get my hands on, including the sheets, and discovered that churches and charities don’t usually do much in the summer, so service work was out till fall. My freezer was full of home-cooked food, and there was not so much as a single weed or shred of crabgrass in my lawn or flower beds.

  I read, of course. I’d always loved to read, but after the third or fourth book, I started having this nagging feeling that I should be doing something. For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t have anybody to take care of, and it didn’t feel good, I can tell you.

  I’d always been the doer. I had no idea how to be a be-er.

  I actually considered going over to Mama’s and cleaning, no matter what she said, but she’d probably have a nervous breakdown, for real, so I didn’t.

  As for the hippies, criminals or not, I wasn’t inclined to make any further overtures. They hadn’t even returned my dishes, much less called to thank me or come to visit, so all was quiet on their side of the street. I hadn’t even seen them since Greg left, but I knew they weren’t out of town. The Vanagon was gone at intervals—I sometimes heard its beetley retreat—but the only other sign of life from their place was charcoal smoke and the smell of barbecued chicken from behind it on Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t jealous. Their backyard got the full force of the afternoon sun, so it must have been hot as blue blazes back there.

  At sixes and sevens on Tuesday afternoon, I decided, late, to drive down to my favorite fabric shop in Atlanta for some material to make drapes for the guest bedroom, the last bare window in the house. For supper I stopped by Henri’s Bakery for a sandwich and a French apple tart, so the sun was low and blazing by the time I reached our subdivision. “It’s a scorcher,” the weatherman on WQXI blared cheerfully. “Ninety-one degrees, with eighty-three percent humidity. Three-day forecast, the heat continues, with no relief in sight except for the occasional afternoon or evening shower.” Shower? They were gully-washers. “Lows in the high seventies. Better grab that pitcher of tea and head for the pool. And now, back to our Golden Oldie Hour with ‘Good Vibrations’ from the Beach Boys!”

  Psychedelic music filled the car as I reached our cul-de-sac and turned in to see what looked for all the world like a funeral tent in the hippies’ front yard, shaded from the sun by their house. Underneath it sat some chairs, with a little blue boat about four feet long, so small that the motionless arms and legs of the person inside it were hanging over the edges.

  I slowed. Dear Lord. Please tell me that’s not some dead body they’re going to bury in their front yard. Surely that was illegal.

  To my relief, the body reared up and hollered in Kat’s unmistakable accent, “I said, bring me some more ice, ’fore it all melts. I’m dyin’, here!”

  I couldn’t help myself; I pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window to ask, “Are you okay? Do I need to call for help?”

  Kat sat up, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, Lord, no. I’m just hot.”

  On closer inspection, I saw that the boat was really a boatshaped kiddy pool, and the hose was running into it, setting up a steady overflow that watered their thirsty new sod.

  Kat tucked her feet back into the water with a wry smile. “I never had a house before. We always rented. I remembered to pay the water bill and the mortgage,” she said, elongating the last word, “but I completely fergot about the power. So when the builder’s line got turned off, we didn’t have any juice.”

  She was so calm about it, and so honest. I certainly wouldn’t have told anybody if I’d done something that dumb, much less somebody I barely knew. Who lived across the street.

  Kat went on. “It’s a hunnerd and ninety-seven inside, so we borrowed this tent from a friend of ours, just till we get hooked back up.” She turned toward the house to bellow, “Zach! If you melted in there, please tell me! Otherwise, bring me some more ice!”

  She said the word like “aaahs.”

  I spotted a couple of deflated air mattresses by one of the chairs. “How long will it take to get your power back?” I asked. Surely they weren’t planning to sleep out there, with all the bugs and the heat.

  “Not till tomorrow.”

  Zach erupted from the front door with a heavy cooler, his tattooed biceps bulging as he brought it down the front stairs. “You want aaahs,” he mocked good-naturedly, “you’ve got aaahs.” He tipped it over the boat and dumped in at least three bags’ worth, sending a s
mall tsunami over the gunnels.

  Kat shrieked with delight. “Aaaaggh! That feels fabulous!”

  Zach laughed. “Well, enjoy it, ’cause that’s the last of it.” Then he turned and granted me a smile from the depths of that nasty beard. “Hey there, Betsy Freakin’ Callison.”

  “Hey.” Suddenly, I was all too conscious of the fact that I’d been gawking at their misfortune. Without any conscious participation on my part, I heard my voice say, “It’s too hot and buggy for y’all to sleep out here. You’ll get eaten alive. Why don’t you stay with me? I’ve got plenty of room, and plenty of air-conditioning.”

  I did not just ask a couple of unmarried hippies to spend the night under my roof! When my husband was away!

  Kat jumped up out of the water with a shriek of joy. “Would we ever! Just give us time to get changed, and we’ll be right over.”

  Dear Lord. There was no taking it back now.

  Zach nodded in gratitude. At least I think it was gratitude. Hard to tell with all that hair.

  I hoped he was at least planning to put on a shirt under his overalls. I shuddered to think what else might or might not be under there.

  Kat splished toward her door, then turned to point at me and say, “Now, that is what I call a good neighbor.”

  Suddenly queasy, I waved my fingers, then rolled up the power window and backed up, then headed for my garage.

  Please don’t let anything bad happen, I prayed in general. And please don’t call tonight, I prayed in Greg’s direction. When he found out, he was going to have a fit.

  Three

  Kicking myself for what I’d done, I tucked away the fabric in the sewing station I’d set up in the closet of the third bedroom. Then I went to the guest room and put a drop of vanilla on the light bulb before turning back the seersucker coverlets and crisp white sheets on the beds. I was plumping the pillows when the doorbell rang.