Skeletons in the Closet (10 page)

“Sweetie, I really don’t think that’s the worst part. Do you know anything about babies?”

“No, but my mom will help. She’s had eight kids. Jeremy used to say that you could always tell when my dad got back from a long away ‘cause there was a baby born nine months later.”

“It sounds like Jeremy has mastered the obvious.”

This stumped Janice for a while, and I was left in peace. I mopped and wiped and cleaned windows and mirrors to the best of my ability, all to the accompaniment of
snap, crack, pop.
I was never buying Rice Krispies again.

We finished well after midnight and received a grudging nod from Mrs. Smitts.

“You girls did a fine job. Leave your bill for Ms. Carmichael, and I’ll be sure she gets it.”

“I’ll mail the bill.” There’s a very small window during the day when I can actually understand math, usually somewhere between 3:59 and 4:01 p.m., and I had to figure out my expenses and Janice’s cut.

The teenager fell asleep on the drive home. I fiddled with the radio stations, looking for something that wasn’t guaranteed to put me to sleep. Where is
Enter Sandman
when you need it? I guess I could put a CD player in the White Cloud of Death, but I figure if you’re going to drive a piece of shit, there’s no sense putting on airs.

A particularly tricky turn found both hands on the wheel, and I braked to a stop as the announcer on WROR out of Framingham grabbed my full attention.

“The annual Thanksgiving Day charity dinner hosted by local resident Francesca Carmichael is gaining even more attention than usual this year. Mrs. Carmichael has hosted the fund-raising holiday dinner for the past decade, ever since the death of her husband, Lewis Carmichael the second, and it has become a local tradition for the privileged among us. The proceeds from the dinner benefit local charities, such as Habitat for Humanity and the United Way. Mrs. Carmichael has announced that this year’s contributions will be given in the name of her sister, Alessandra Kline, who was found brutally slain last Friday. When asked if her brother-in-law and murder suspect, Douglass Kline, would be in attendance, the widow Carmichael rushed to his defense.

‘Mr. Kline is a wonderful person who loved my sister unconditionally and I would be honored to count him among my guests.’

“This year’s guest list includes two current politicians as well as some aspiring….”

I switched the radio off. Well, that answered my question about Frannie’s marital status. My hands were shriveled, and I reeked of bleach and sweat. All I wanted to do was get home and take a long soak in the tub. There were too many nuances to this case, and I was in no condition to ruminate.

Neil and Jack greeted us in the driveway, and after seeing my ‘helper’ off, I stumbled into the bathroom. Neil followed me and watched with mild interest as I ran scalding hot water on top of the lilac bath crystals.

“How’d it go?”

I grunted and began to strip. A button from my shirt tangled in my hair, and I yelped in pain. Why is it when you’re tired, even the slightest discomfort is excruciating?

“Easy there, Tiger,” Neil soothed as he worked my hair free from the shirt. He helped me out of the rest of my clothes and into the tub before I could damage myself further.

“Are you going to be all right?” Neil’s gaze flickered with concern.

“No more pregnant teenagers. I did twice as much work as if I’d been alone, trying to keep her out of trouble. And she talks too much.”

 
“Must get it from her mother. Jack Hammer is a good guy to have at your back, but I doubt if he said half a dozen words while he was here. That’s including hello and goodbye.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” I confessed as I rested my head against the back of the tub.

“Don’t think about it anymore tonight,” Neil advised and handed me a towel. “There’ll be plenty of time in the morning.”

I snorted. “There’ll be
no
time in the morning. Or until well after I have this Thanksgiving dinner over with.”

“Well, all the cleaning is done, so what else is there?”

“The
dinner
, Neil.” Honestly, he could be thick at times. “I haven’t bought anything, and with your mother’s menu….”

“Ssshhh, no more tonight, Uncle Scrooge. We’ll tackle tomorrow, tomorrow.”

I dragged an oversized T-shirt over my head and flopped on the bed seconds before oblivion claimed me.

S
omeone shone a light in my eyes. I groaned and rolled away, but the light followed me. I put my hands over my face and peeked through my fingers, guessing I had out slept the boys and they were out to get me. What I saw confused then horrified me.

Sunlight.

The sun glared at me through my west-facing windows, and I could almost hear the voice of Apollo in my head.
If you’re gonna be lazy enough to sleep the day away, don’t blame me when you’re too stupid to shut your blinds.

“
Neil
!”
How could he have let this happen? He knew how important today was for Thanksgiving preparations! He’d probably thought he was doing me a kindness, letting me sleep off my fatigue. Neil doesn’t buy my ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead’ speech.

I was too afraid to glance at the clock so I flew to the closet and yanked on the first pair of clean jeans I found. I pulled on one of Neil’s T-shirts, figuring if I ruined it in my frantic haste he’d brought it on himself. I scrunched my hair into a messy pony tail while dashing to the kitchen, but tripped on a wrinkle in the carpet and ended up spread eagled on the floor.

Damn it all to the black depths of Hades! I’d never been able to master two things at once.

I pushed myself up from the carpet and continued my mad dash for the kitchen. There was a note on the counter from Marty, informing me he’d taken the boys to the park and that my mother-in-law had called. I faced the inevitable and looked at the clock on the microwave. 3:46 p.m., the day before Thanksgiving, and I still hadn’t done my shopping.

No time to lose. I grabbed my purse and my keys, jotted a quick note on the back of Marty’s, and was out the door. A brisk wind slapped me in the face and tossed my unruly hair in my eyes, but I didn’t slow. I climbed behind the wheel of the White Cloud of Death and shoved the key into the ignition. I turned and waited for the engine to catch.

Nothing.

Okay, Self, don’t panic.
I turned it again, and still nothing. A third try came up nada. No revving of an ancient engine to indicate the beast was even trying. “She’s dead, Jim,” I muttered in my best Bones McCoy imitation. Murphy and his confounded law had struck again.

I bashed the dashboard with all my anger at the vehicle’s impotence. My mother used to say we should thank God for small favors and be happy something worse didn’t happen, but I was too behind, and my coma from the night before hadn’t replenished my reserves. A little creative cussing was in order as I gave up on the van and didn’t attempt to pop the hood, because what I knew about cars would fit in Greg the Gym Rat’s jock strap and was just as useless.

Mrs. Kline didn’t think it was useless.
That rotten inner voice was always up for an argument.

“Shut-up, Self,” I muttered as I looked around for another option. I could walk to the store, but my grocery list was the size of a Chinese restaurant’s menu, and I didn’t think I’d be able to carry everything back. None of my neighbors seemed to be home, and I doubted I would’ve asked for a ride even if they were. I wasn’t ready to cement my reputation as the neighborhood nut case yet.

Kenny and Josh had abandoned their bikes by the porch, and I eyed them for a moment before dismissing them, due to the carrying problem. I could call Neil and ask him to come and pick me up, but I knew he had an uphill battle with his weenie manager and he may not be able to get the time off. I could call my mother-in-law and cancel the whole shebang.

I shuddered. No, that wasn’t an option. Okay, what would the pilgrims and Native Americans have done?

Shopped early.

I spied the wheelbarrow propped against the side of the house. “Yes!” I cried as my inner voice shrieked
No!
You can’t push the wheelbarrow all the way into town. What if someone sees you? You’ll look completely unhinged.

I was starting to think I was completely unhinged as I plopped my purse in the barrow and started off. According to Map Quest, the nearest supermarket was 2.7 miles from my address, but pushing a wheelbarrow that far was no easy task. I saw more than one motorist along the road, eyes like beach balls, nose pressed to the glass. The wheelbarrow was a fight every step of the way—one wheel didn’t for good navigation make—and I had to struggle to keep it on the road. I made sure to stay with traffic, since I didn’t want to get a ticket. No more time in the slammer for Maggie Phillips.

I huffed along; sure I experienced some of that adrenaline-charged superhuman strength that Neil referred to on occasion. I remembered a story he’d told me about a grandmother lifting the back end of a Cadillac to rescue a trapped child. I wonder what she would have done if her first Thanksgiving with the in-laws was at stake.

My hands were chafed and raw from the mid-grade wooden handles by the time I reached the market. I parked the barrow around the back of the store and sauntered inside the way a normal person would. I barely suppressed a wince as my hands gripped the shopping cart. A shopping cart would be much easier to push home, I mused, but I had no idea what the penalty for shopping cart theft was, so I released a sigh and dug in my purse.

It took me a moment to comprehend what had happened. My shopping list was tucked neatly into my cook book, at home, right where it could be the least functional. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from imploding on the spot. I was the recipient of more curious glances, but if these people only knew my mother-in-law….

Standing sentinel in the supermarket wouldn’t get Thanksgiving dinner under way, so I began in produce. A dozen Macintosh apples for homemade apple sauce, fresh thyme and rosemary for the turkey, white and sweet potatoes, onions, turnip, and I was off to the canned aisle. Everything was much more picked over here, and I cringed at grocery store prices for canned pumpkin this close to the holiday. Cranberry, evaporated milk, flour, sugar, brown sugar, I probably had some of this stuff at home, but better safe than sorry.

My normal efficiency was gone without my list, and I was transported back to my early days of shopping willy-nilly. I was putting off the turkey, since that was a dilemma all of its own.

A normal person buys her turkey a few days ahead so it has plenty of time to defrost. Maggie Phillips didn’t have that luxury, so I chatted up the meat manager, and he told me how to brine a turkey. I was to set the bird in a salt water bath as soon as I got home. That way it would cook faster and have more time to defrost. He recommended I cook the stuffing separately, and I didn’t argue.

I stood in line, watching the glazed expression of the other veal as we waited for the financial slaughter. I have a knack for picking the wrong line and, as usual, I waited behind a woman who bore a startling resemblance to that girl from
Flash Dance
and was trying to pay by check.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The pockmarked cashier didn’t look the tiniest bit sorry, more like bored. “You need to have your driver’s license with you in order to write a check.”

“But it’s out in the car; can’t you make an exception, just this once?” The pretty brunette in the sky blue spandex and cut-up sweatshirt fluttered her mascaraed lashes at the checkout guy, and I snorted. Like that was going to work. The kid had already ‘ma’am-ed’ her, for Pete’s sake.

“It’s a store policy, ma’am.” The clerk scratched at an especially deep crater, and I winced in sympathy. If he had nails he was gonna need a blood transfusion.

The woman worked her wiles a few moments longer, but Crater Face held his ground. Finally, the complaints from the people behind me sent Jennifer Beals out to get her driver’s license.

Crater Face took his sweet time checking me out and had to call a price check on my parsley. At that point, I was ready to tell him to stuff the parsley where the sun didn’t shine, but the price check came in, and I pushed my cart around the back of the store where I’d left my transportation.

It wasn’t there.

I left the cart and searched along the brick wall and around the other corner too.

Someone had swiped my freaking wheelbarrow!

I pulled out my cell phone and called the house. Kenny picked up on the second ring. “Mom, where are you? Grandma’s been calling and she sounds real angry.”

“Kenny, is your Uncle Marty there? Or Dad by any chance?”

“Dad’s not, but Uncle Marty’s around someplace. Hang on.”

There was some scuffling and a bit of silence before Marty came on the line.

“’Lo?”

“Hey, Sprout, I need you to come pick me up.”

“You back in the slammer?”

“No,” I ground out between clenched teeth. I swore I’d never tell him anything again. “My van was dead, and I don’t want to steal a shopping cart, so could you come get me?”

Marty agreed to pick me up, and I ran through a list of things I had to do once I got home. The pies had to be made as well as the dressing and dip. Laura had sent me a recipe for a cheese filled puff pastry and stuffed mushrooms which I would try as appetizers along with the standard cheese and crackers and veggie platter because I knew the kids and my brother wouldn’t touch the other fare.

I saw the cloud of exhaust and heard the rumble of an ancient Chevy before I saw Marty careen into the lot. I waved him down, and he pulled in next to me. He rolled down the window, and Marilyn Manson blared as he informed us we’re all stars in the dope show.

“Damn, Maggs, how many people did you say were coming?”

“I didn’t want to have to go out again.”

“You get beer?” Marty didn’t leave the car as I loaded my bags into his trunk.

“No, it’s Thanksgiving.” I slammed the trunk and rounded to get in.

“Exactly. Turkey, football games and beer; the mighty trinity of an American holiday.”

“Neil’s parents are bringing a few of their clients, and I’m striving for a classy dinner.”

“Fancy-shmansy.” Marty snorted some phlegm and then spat at the window. The now closed window. It left a slimy trail as gravity worked it into the door frame. “What fun is classy anyways?”

“You are so vile. If Mom and Dad could only see you now—”

“I know, I’m a worthless scum-bum, but at least I’m not trying to be something I’m not.”

I didn’t like his tone. “What are you talking about?”

“You get all uptight around your in-laws and you’re so obsessed with impressing them that you become a total prig.”

I sucked in a breath. “I am
not
a prig!”

“Yes, you are. You’re usually lots of fun, but whenever Neil’s parents are around you walk like you’ve got a two-by-four lodged in your sphincter.”

“Better a two-by-four than my head,” I retorted.

“Laundry Hag.”

“Dork-Nut.”

“Toilet Scrubber.”

“Shiftless layabout.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Marty was smug as he turned the car into our driveway. “Your insults are all ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ now. So politically correct that they aren’t even good insults! You’re turning into Martha Stewart.”

“Take that back!”

“Yeah, I think that fits since you’re both jailbirds.”

“Bite me, Butt-Munch.” I reached across my brother and popped the trunk myself. I opened the door and looked over at him. “You have no idea how hard it is being responsible for other people. You get to just drift through life without a care, knowing Neil and I will always be there to bail your fat out of the fire. But you know, I have to set a good example for my boys, and that includes you—it has for over a decade. I may not be as much fun as I was before, but I’m a better person. Can you say the same thing?”

I shut the door before he could whip out another smart ass retort and began to unload.

* * * *

Marty had driven off in a huff as soon as I carted my bags inside. Kenny and Josh were playing their latest PlayStation game and murmured a greeting at me. I deposited my bags and called Neil while I put the groceries away.

“Do you think I’m a prig?”

It took a moment for his laughter to subside. “No, Maggie, I don’t think you’re a prig. Why do you ask?”

“Marty.” I scrubbed out the sink and let it fill for ol’ Tom’s brine bath. “He said I’m different when your parents come around, that I turn into Martha Stewart.”