Skeletons in the Closet (5 page)

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.”

I had no idea how to respond to this so I did the guy thing. I grunted.

Francesca opened the door to the master bedroom and stopped short. I slammed into her back. I was going to ask her what was going on when I noticed the reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

Not again.

Mrs. Kline was shown in profile in the mirror, so at least she hadn’t seen us. She’d shed her unflattering dress in favor of her birthday suit and was bent over her very expensive duvet, moaning in ecstasy. The man behind her, and I do mean
behind,
was not Mr. Kline, unless Mr. Kline had increased in both height and muscle tone since Monday night. And had managed to shed about twenty years.

I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time I’ve walked in on people having sex. Nor is it the first time I’ve walked in on people having sex who weren’t supposed to be having sex. In fact, I think this might be my
modus operandi.

The worst part about this type of discovery is that I’ve never figured out a way to exit with my dignity intact. Each time, I’ve stood there, wondering what I should do next. One might think I could develop a battle plan, like I had for the supermarket, but until it happens to you, you won’t understand the reaction. It takes all of my energy not to laugh.

Or cry. Or scream.

Mr. I’m-not-Mr. Kline was really getting his groove on. A heart pierced by an arrow tattoo decorated his left shoulder blade. For some reason, that made me sad because in this case the pierced heart would belong to creepy Mr. Kline. Of course, Kline could at this very moment be engaged in a similar situation with a woman who wasn’t his wife. The fact that Mrs. Kline’s naked form resembled an age-spotted turkey carcass after Thanksgiving dinner was little solace.

The moaning increased to a fever pitch, and I was pretty sure we needed to either back out of the room now or risk discovery. Thankfully, Francesca made the decision and closed the door.

“Um, I think I’ll come back for my phone at a more convenient time,” I said.

Francesca looked at me and shook her head. We took the stairs at a trot and didn’t stop until we were both outside. Francesca lost it and began to giggle hysterically, and I couldn’t help but join her.

“I guess my sister has her own kind of relaxation planned for this afternoon,” Frannie said as she gasped for air. “That’ll teach me to call first.”

D
espite the wheezing cackles we’d been reduced to, I thought Francesca and I handled
the situation with a surprising amount of style. When we ran out of breath, we each made some sincere sounding apologies and excused ourselves. Of course, as soon as I’d recovered, I started laughing again. I wiped tears from my eyes on the way home and had barely regained control by the time I picked the boys up from school.

The boys have had karate every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon from the time they turned five. Neil and I agreed early on that it’s important for the boys to learn self-discipline and confidence. Martial arts do both, plus it gives them something to focus on outside of school. I was glad to see that the local martial arts center offered classes around the same time, so their schedules weren’t completely jolted when we moved.

“How’s it going, guys?” I asked and wiped the last few tears of amusement from my eyes.

Kenny and Josh looked at me funny and clambered into the back of the car. I’d driven to the Intel plant and swapped cars with Neil, since the two-seater Cloud of Death wasn’t something I wanted to transport the kids in. Besides, if I showed up in the van at the school, Kenny and Josh would probably pretend they didn’t know me and get on the bus. The poor kids still have to learn that embarrassment is a part of life, and who better to ease young boys into that unfortunate reality than a wacky mom?

“Jimmy Kendal picked his nose until it bled in the middle of the spelling test. He had to go to the nurse to get it to stop. And then he had to retake the test because the first one was all bloody,” Kenny told me with relish.

“That’s horrible; I hope you didn’t make fun of him,” I said.

“Nah, I was too impressed that he could bleed so much and still be alive.” Kenny believed in brutal honesty.

“What about you, Josh? Did anything interesting happen today?”

“Not really, except Mrs. Martin asked me why I still hadn’t turned in my report.”

I told him about the meeting I’d set up for Monday, glad to see an expression of relief cross his face. Josh is exactly like Neil: they both hate the idea of leaving something unfinished.

Karate went well, with both boys ravenous by the time they got home. They snacked on pretzels and string cheese before heading back to their room to do homework. The phone rang while I prepared dinner, and I grabbed the cordless so I could keep an eye on my chicken cutlets.

“Hello?”

“Um, Maggie Phillips, please?” The female voice sounded hesitant, and it took me a minute to place her.

“Is this Dee?”

“Yeah. I, uh, thought you should know that Marty and I broke up, so he isn’t living with me anymore.”

I dropped my head, feeling the crushing weight of defeat. Dee had been great for Marty, and they’d stayed together for almost three months. I’d only met her once, but I’d liked the pretty, intelligent African American woman, a zoologist in the Bronx. I guess all that animal training still wasn’t enough to deal with my brother.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dee,” I said. “Do you have any idea where Marty is now?”

“No, we had a huge fight about his new job, and he packed up his duffels and hit the road.”

I cringed from the familiar refrain. “What new job?”

“Trust me,” Dee said. “You don’t want to know.”

She was probably right, and my guilt overwhelmed me. I had been responsible for Marty since our parents’ untimely death, and every time I found out about another scheme, I felt like an even bigger failure.

“Thank you for calling, Dee. I really am very sorry.”

Dee said goodbye, and I hung up the phone. I turned the chicken cutlets and washed some broccoli, wishing my brother had contacted me before he moved out and praying he would call soon to let me know he was safe. I wished it was Sunday so that I could talk to Neil, knowing that it was silly to call and bug him at work when there was nothing either of us could do until Marty surfaced.

Dinner was quiet that night. I pushed food around my plate, and the boys gobbled everything before them so they’d be ready to watch the new
Avatar
movie on TV. I cleaned the kitchen and had the boys sort out their dirty clothes before I started a load of laundry. Of course, their idea of sorting is much different from my own. They put grays in with the whites and bundle sheets and towels together, breaking laundry commandment number two.

The Laundry Commandments are a big joke in our house. Living in a house full of testosterone has always been like pushing a boulder to the top of the mountain. I would finally feel like I was making some progress, but the next thing I knew, I’d been flattened in the dirt, watching the rock roll back to the bottom. I’d started spouting the Laundry Commandments a few years back, in hopes of making a dent, never once realizing my words were sinking in, but not in the way intended. What had begun as me nagging (I call it ‘explaining’ but Neil insists it’s ‘nagging’) about emptying pockets and using fabric softener had become a chorus of beat Maggie to the punch. Neil and the boys had actually hand carved me an 11x13 sign which now hangs above the dryer.

The Laundry Commandments
:

1)
                      
Thou shall separate thy whites (i.e. socks, undergarments) from thy colored clothes.

2)
                     
Thou shall not mix thy sheets with thy towels.

3)
                     
Honor thy (my) lint screen and keep it free of crud.

4)
                     
Thy workout clothes must be washed with thy towels not my new white top.

5)
                     
Empty thy pockets of gum, Chapstick, baseball cards, wallets, keys, candy, Swiss army knives, and all other pocket flotsam or thou shall evoke the wrath of the Laundry Goddess.

6)
                     
Thou shall not mess with the water temperature settings without my permission.

7)
                     
Thou must remove clothes from the washing machine in a timely manner, i.e. before the plague of mildew sets in.

8)
                    
If thou are confused about liquid vs. powdered detergent, ASK!

I could easily imagine Neil working overtime to change “Laundry Goddess” into “Laundry Hag”. It’s a darn good thing I have an excellent sense of humor.

* * * *

Neil arrived home shortly after the boys were in bed for the night. I was dead on my feet and without the energy to tell him about my day. I heated his dinner, kissed him goodnight, and dragged myself into bed. In that blissful state between asleep and awake, where all the hard edges of the world melt away, my body relaxed.

The phone rang. Neil answered it on the second ring and flicked on the overhead light as he entered our room. I groaned and squinted.

“It’s Mr. Kline for you.” He ignored my wave of refusal and held the phone to my ear.

“Maggie, I’m so sorry to disturb you this late, but I heard your message and retrieved your phone. Why don’t you come to the house tomorrow around two and pick it up.”

I stifled a yawn. “Thank you, Mr. Kline, I’ll be there.”

“It’s Doug, remember?”

“Yes, thank you, Doug.”

He disconnected, and I shoved the phone back at Neil.

“What was that all about?”

“I made an appointment to go pick up my phone.”

“How did the job go?”

I gave him the highlights of my day, briefly outlining my attempt to retrieve the cell phone and the mating act I’d witnessed.

“Cripes,” Neil said. Actually, he said something I don’t want to repeat. “How do you get yourself into these situations?”

That was a rhetorical question if ever I’d heard one. The truth is, I don’t know how I always manage to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess it’s sort of like having the extreme opposite of intuition. Like the lights flicker as the killer creaks his way across the floor, and I’m singing
Like a Virgin
into my hairbrush, cosmically oblivious.

“Do you think I should tell Mr. Kline?” I asked.

Neil has a very particular expression he uses whenever he’s confronted with blatant stupidity. This face has made a cameo now and again throughout our marriage.

And he had it on now.

“I know what you’re thinking; I should mind my own business.”

“You left out the expletive, but yeah, that’s pretty much what I was thinking.”

“But, I mean, if you were him, wouldn’t you want someone to tell you?”

“That my wife was fornicating with some guy young enough to be my son in our bed?”

Well when he put it like that….

“Maggie, I know you have good intentions and you’re just as compelled to save the world as I was as a SEAL, but, honey, you know nothing about their situation. Maybe they have some kind of arrangement, and Mr. Kline has his own Twinkie on the side. Besides, you know the old adage about shooting the messenger? Do you really feel it’s necessary to put yourself in the middle of this? You don’t even like these people.”

Neil rarely shouts. I think it’s a side effect of being brought up by parents who did nothing but shout. Instead of yelling when he’s angry, Neil delivers his thoughts in short, clipped, machine-gun-like fire, one coming immediately after the next. I’ve learned to pay attention when he talks that way.

“I see your point,” I told him.

Neil grunted in what I can only interpret as grim satisfaction, and his stern gaze softened a degree. “So, you made fifty dollars on top of the five hundred. Not too shabby. You keep this up and you can quit shopping at Wal-Mart.”

“Stop talkin’ dirty.” I
hate
shopping at Wal-Mart. I hate shopping at Wal-Mart the way Jack Nicholson hated taking pills in
As Good as it Gets.
But like Jack’s character, I put my loathing aside, fight for a parking space in the trash-strewn lot, avoid collisions with wild-eyed bargain seekers and depressed-looking employees sporting the infamous blue vest in order to save three dollars on the last mega pack of toilet tissue. If I won the lottery I’d
still
shop at Wal-Mart, because I’m Uncle Scrooge, and three dollars is three dollars.

God bless America.

* * * *

I had a serious case of anxiety by the time two o’clock rolled around. The decision to walk in the brisk November air, since I didn’t have my arsenal of cleaning supplies to transport, was supposed to help sooth my agitated nerves, but if anything, my unease grew with every step.

I’ll go in, say hi and thank you when he hands me the phone and be on my merry way.
I pressed the doorbell. I had a battle plan and took some of those cleansing yoga breaths. A bug made its way into my esophagus, and I choked. Sylvia constantly reminded me to keep mouth shut when I did that.

I managed to hack the bug up and wipe the spittle from my face before Mr. Kline opened the door.

“Ah, Ms. Maggie, a pleasure to see you.”

I couldn’t help but mentally compare Mr. Kline’s cordial greeting to his wife’s less than welcoming salutation the day before. They really were a strange pair, and even though I liked her less, I would rather be around Alessandra because Douglass Kline creeped me out.

Big Time
.

“Please come in.” Doug made a gesture, and I stepped past him. He closed the door, and we stood there, him studying my face and me looking anywhere but at him. Where was my damn phone? I couldn’t wait until we all had personal communicators like on
Star Trek
, which would remain attached to our clothing and would have to be intentionally removed.