The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

settlers.”
    “Didn’t the colonists steal their land?”
    “Later,” I mumbled and turned my attention to Neil. “Maybe you should explain the finer points of American history to him, while I talk with Josh.”
    “You always get the easy one,” Neil groused as he followed Kenny’s prattling voice down the hall to the boys’ bedroom.
    I took out a bag of baby carrots and some dip I’d made earlier and set them on the counter. Our kitchen is decorated circa 1963, with a hideous yellow wall border to match the awful lime green walls. The counter is a U shape with a range top and the original sink set into a work counter that separates the kitchen and dining room. I had purchased a few barstools on one of my more successful garage sale excursions and reupholstered them in a practical brown that Neil and the kids say looks like…well, you know.
    The fridge—which we’d replaced out of necessity—and the wall oven, made up the fourth side of the room. I also owned a portable dishwasher that napped in the garage until after dinner.
    “What’s up, Doc?” I munched on a carrot and did my best Bugs Bunny, but Josh shot me a you’re so lame look. “Spill it, tough guy.”
    “You have to promise not to make a big deal out of this,” Josh implored me.
    Uh oh. I sat on one of the stools in case the news was going to disrupt my digestive tract. “What am I not making a big deal about?”
    Josh miserably opened his backpack and dug out a crumpled piece of paper. I took it from him without further comment. After scanning the contents, I looked to Josh, who’d put his head on the counter.
    “Why didn’t you write your book report?” I asked in my most even voice. Josh was an excellent student who loved to read as much as he loved to backtalk. I couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t completed an assignment.
    “It was this stupid book about this guy who goes fishing but doesn’t catch anything.”
    I frowned. “ The Old Man and the Sea ? Why would your teacher assign that to a sixth grader?”
    “I had to pick it out of the library. It looked short enough that I thought I could get it over with quick, like a Band-Aid.”
    I cringed because there was no quick way to get past the painful works of Ernest Hemingway. “This is a book more appropriate for older kids. Why did your teacher let you choose that?”
    “Mrs. Martin said I was intelligent enough to understand the symbolism and nuances. She said she was looking forward to my report. But after I finished, I couldn’t write about it because I didn’t know what to say.”
    I took another carrot and dipped it, smelling the sour cream and onion soup mix before I ate it. “You know how to do a book report, Josh. You summarize the plot—”
    “But there was no plot! The guy went fishing! That’s one sentence! That’s less words than in the title! That’s not a report. How could I hand that in?” Josh looked so upset, and I pulled him into my arms. It’s always a coin toss whether he’ll let me do that anymore. It was a rough day in the Phillips’ house.
    I felt his frustration. I remembered my own struggles in school reading the “classics” touted as the be-all end-all of literature. Poor Josh had years of this aggravation and struggle ahead of him.
    “I tell you what, Scamp. I’ll call your teacher and see if maybe she’ll let you read another book, one which is more appropriate for your age. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
    Josh nodded, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.
    “Why don’t you go do your other assignments? I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
    Josh picked up his backpack and headed down the hall. Neil ruffled his hair as they passed in the hallway. I started chopping onions with a vengeance, and Neil retrieved a beer from the fridge. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he waited for me to fill him in.
    “Fricking Hemingway,” I said.
    Neil laughed.

    * * * *
    Dinner was a serious affair with mass quantities of shepherd’s pie and mixed veggies disappearing at the speed of light. I’m constantly amazed that there isn’t food flying everywhere as my guys create vortexes that suck all things edible from the table. My Hoover vacuum isn’t that efficient.
    After dinner, Neil helped the boys finish their homework as I cleaned the kitchen. Afterwards, I curled up with my latest romance novel.
    The phone rang.
    “It’s me,” Sylvia said without preamble. “What are you doing?”
    “Nothing, reading.”
    “Good,