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

might have strangled her with Neil’s jock strap. Sylvia remained calm, as if stating fact, a slim, blonde, all-knowing Buddha trying to better mankind. And it appeared she was starting with me. Neil sometimes takes a similar approach, and it drives me friggin’ bananas. There’s nothing worse than seeing the craziness in a calm person as they ask for something completely ridiculous and then to have them look at you as if you’re a shovel shy of a tool shed.
    “Don’t take that tone with me,” I warned Sylvia in my most lucid voice.
    “You’re overreacting,” Mahatma Gandhi informed me.
    I clenched my jaw. “I do not overreact!” That was a flat out lie. I make time in my day to overreact. Overreacting keeps my head from exploding.
    I picked up the laundry basket and stomped down the hall to my bedroom, hoping Sylvia took the hint. Even though I’d only known her for six months, Sylvia was the kind of friend I really appreciated. She didn’t create unnecessary drama, like some of the navy wives I’d known. (I know what you’re thinking, that I admitted to overreacting on a regular basis, but that is necessary drama. Remember the whole exploding cranium bit.) She always told me her opinion, even at the risk of my feelings. If I looked truly horrible in a new outfit, Sylvia would tell me, without hesitation or spectacle. She lets me know where I stand, and I usually appreciated it.
    But not this time.
    I still felt shanghaied from the night before. Bad enough everyone on the street had seen Mrs. Kline begrudgingly offer me a job I didn’t want it to look like she was doing me a favor. Getting out of the house and making more money would be nice, but I’d hoped to find something a little less demeaning. It wasn’t like I thought the cleaning position was beneath me. I may be a little touched in the head but I love to clean. Not if it meant being treated like a second-class citizen, however well I would be compensated.
    I shoved Neil’s boxers and sweat socks into the dresser and unloaded my undergarments into another drawer.
    Sylvia appeared in the doorway. “Look, I have a class at one-thirty, so I have to head out. I didn’t mean to upset you, Maggie. I thought you might need a push out the door.”
    I stowed my under things and turned to her. “Just tell me this, Sylvie, why them? You were in the room with me last night; you saw the freak show in Armani. Why would you want me to deal with that?”
    Sylvia grinned. “At least you wouldn’t be bored. Not to mention, there aren’t too many decent paying jobs in the area right now. It would be a place to start.”
    I nodded. Truth was, I didn’t have much in the way of options. My business degree gathered dust in the garage, mostly because I lacked the killer instinct necessary in business. Most of the positions I did qualify for didn’t leave me with the option of being home for my family. I’m an old fashioned girl at heart. My mom had worked in our school lunchroom so she would be free to put her family first, and I prided myself on following in her footsteps.
    I walked Sylvia to the front door. She turned and gave me a quick hug. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll call you later.”
    “Talk to you later.” I shut the door and watched her cross our scraggly patch of lawn to her own pristine one before driving off in her sporty white Mustang convertible. A sigh escaped my lips. Sylvia was the type of friend I couldn’t help but envy. Completely happy with her life, herself, and the people around her. Sylvia embodied what all women wanted to be. I made a habit of counting my blessings, but there were times where I felt less than content.
    The phone trilled, and I scooped the portable from the charger.
    “Hello?”
    “Maggie dear, it’s Laura.”
    I swallowed. Laura, a.k.a. Neil’s mother, must be the most intimidating woman on the planet. She’s not the baking, housekeeping type like my mother had been. She had made grown men wet their pants in terror whenever they came up against her in court. Back in the early 70s, she’d been an icon of women’s lib, taking life and coworkers alike by the balls. She’d been some sort of child prodigy, graduating from law school at the tender age of twenty-two. She’d gotten pregnant, and the gravy train had come to an abrupt halt—and she never let Neil or Ralph forget it. Years of cutthroat practice had killed any sense of humor or tenderness the woman ever possessed. To Laura Phillips, my