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

inconsideration.
    Eric brushed past me without acknowledging my presence, but stopped dead when his gaze took in a pale-faced Sylvia. She’d wrapped her arms around herself and wouldn’t meet his stare. Her posture radiated hurt in staggering waves, combating with the righteous anger I threw off on her behalf.
    “Sylvie, I….” He trailed off, searching for a cover story and she looked at him hopefully. As if whatever came out of his mouth would erase the last five minutes.
    “We were just—”
    “Having a little oral sex.” The woman finished for him. Hell hath no fury indeed. This broad had taken in the scene, realized Eric had walked into a cauldron of hot water, and tossed a load of kindling on the fire. “Sorry Hon, he told me he wasn’t seeing anybody.”
    “This is his wife!” I yelled in outrage, pointing to Sylvia. Damn it all, someone needed to shout.
    The brunette blanched and I shot a scud-missile at her with my eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you that you perform sexual favors in a public place with a guy you barely know? Don’t you value yourself? Aren’t you worth more than a quickie on the sly with a lying pig? What would your mother think?”
    She opened and closed her mouth like a fish.
    “Maggie,” Sylvia pleaded, but I wasn’t done. Some things need attention in the
    here and now.
    I whirled on Eric. “And you! I actually thought you had a few brain cells to rub together. Whatkind of insensitive ass-muppet betrays his gorgeous wife for a five second orgasm
    with an overly-teased piece of fluff?”
    “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Why don’t you stay out of my business?” A warning threaded through Eric’s tone.
    Sylvia hadn’t said a word other than my name and continued to tug halfheartedly on my arm. Other people had ceased their workouts to watch the spectacle. Poor Sylvia. And I had to don my crazy hat, bringing more attention to cthe situation. The mortification written across her face convinced me.
    “That’s a mighty fine idea.” I whirled on my heel and marched off to the front desk. “I want to cancel my membership,” I announced to the tanned Adonis manning the phones.
    “Uh…well, there’s a form you need to fill out and—”
    I waved a hand, practically bonking him on the beak. “Whatever. Just as long
    I can register a complaint with the owner.”
    “A complaint about what?”
    “Unsanitary conditions in the ballroom.”

    * * * *

    I asked Sylvia to come to my house for a bit, but deep down I knew she craved alone time, and wasn’t surprised when she refused. With any luck, she’d bounce back and set her life straight by changing the locks on her front door before Eric came home. I’d already offered to send Neil to the local hardware store on her behalf.
    “Hey gang, Mom’s home!” Neil stood and stretched his back. I staggered over the threshold of our humble abode. As was custom, two backpacks, three baskets of unfolded linens and a pile of mail awaited my attention in the miniscule entryway which doubled as our foyer. The new coat of sage paint I’d applied a few days earlier still smelled fresh and Neil had finally hung the family pictures I’d been hounding him about.
    “Good workout?” Neil dropped a kiss on the top of my head and I stifled the urge to fall into his arms and sob. Two adrenaline spikes and more surprises and self-doubt than I’d wanted to count in the past ten hours made stringing a sentence together damn near impossible.
    “Mom, Josh is in the bathroom and he won’t come out!” Kenny’s words were punctuated with violent pounding. “Come on, dweeb, I gotta go!”
    “Kenny, use ours for the love of Pete!” Neil’s voice was tinged with exasperation.
    “How long has he been in there?”
    Neil glanced at the mantel clock below his big screen T.V., where he paused an episode of Deadliest Catch. “Almost an hour.”
    “Is he sick? Vomiting? Have you called the doctor yet? I heard there’s a stomach bug going around—”
    I cut myself off and headed for the kitchen where the emergency phone numbers resided, but Neil tugged me back by the shirt.
    “Maggie, he’s not sick, he’s twelve. Twel-ve, as in adolescent, pre-pubescent twelve.”
    I blinked a few times and Neil chucked me under the chin then locked his gaze with mine in silent communion. I stared into the hazel depths and the light dawned.
    “Cripes, not yet.” I sagged onto my ugly yet practical barstools and the