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

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