Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  • • •

  I went back up to the attic. “Family ructions,” I said to Huck. “My brother has uncovered my dad’s porn stash and you’ll never guess what my niece has done …”

  In the time it took me to build the dresser, Huck managed to finish the wardrobe and the pine double bed. We moved the furniture into place—rearranging it a couple of times—and then I started unpacking the new bedding I’d ordered. Ten minutes later the bed was made up and we stood back to admire our work. Huck said he could probably do with a desk, but I wasn’t to worry; he’d buy that, along with a nightstand and a couple of bedside lights.

  Before leaving for work, he brought down all the cardboard packaging and left it outside with the recycling. Greg wouldn’t have done that unless I’d nagged.

  After Huck had gone, I retired to the sofa and started channel surfing. As it was Saturday afternoon, the viewing choices were limited to soccer, rugby and snooker—or, for the women, a Danielle Steel miniseries from the eighties and back-to-back editions of How Clean Is Your House?

  I switched off the TV and began looking around the living room. It was even more of a mess than usual. In fact the whole house was more of a mess than usual. Since letting Mrs. Fredericks go, I was managing to keep the place sanitary—that is to say, I was cleaning the bathroom and loo, swabbing down the kitchen surfaces, mopping the floor and doing laundry, but the ironing had pretty much gone to pot, and it had been ages since I’d dusted or given the place a thorough tidy. What with work and seeing to the kids, plus the shopping and cooking, I was just too tired. The worse the mess got, the more intimidating it became.

  In the spirit of feeling the fear and doing it anyway, and because I didn’t want Huck to think I was a slattern—not that he seemed to have noticed the state of the house, or if he had he’d been too polite to say anything—I found myself standing up and heaving the heavy cushions off the sofa. This revealed a rich seam of fluff, dirt and fossilized potato chips. Among the larger items were two pizza crusts, several slices of pepperoni—brittle with age—a couple of pound coins and one of Amy’s barrettes. There was also a T-shirt that belonged to Greg, the one with the DUNDER MIFFLIN logo. I had no idea what it was doing there. Maybe the kids had borrowed it for some reason. Perched on the edge of the sofa so as to avoid the springs, I picked up the shirt and began smoothing and folding it. I would give it to Greg tomorrow when he brought the kids back.

  When I’d finished vacuuming the sofa and living room, I gathered up a load of Amy and Ben’s junk and took it upstairs to their rooms. Once I’d off-loaded it, I realized I was holding the T-shirt. Instead of taking it back downstairs and putting it on the hall table or in the kitchen, I went into my bedroom and placed it in one of the empty drawers of what had once been Greg’s dresser.

  Afterwards, I went back downstairs and started cleaning the oven.

  Chapter 12

  Huck got back from work around seven, just as I was opening a bottle of wine. I’d assumed that as it was Saturday, he’d be working at the youth club until late, but it turned out that he’d only popped in to catch up with some paperwork. His colleagues were staying on to take charge of the night’s hot dogs and entertainment.

  “Join me?” I said, reaching for another glass.

  “I’d love to, but I really don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

  “You’re not. Believe me, I’d be glad for the company.”

  “OK, if you’re sure.”

  We took our wine into the living room. I sat on the newly spruced-up sofa. He took one of the armchairs. We sipped our drinks and made slightly awkward small talk.

  I said again how great the attic was looking and tried to persuade him to let me pay for any extra furniture he needed. He wouldn’t hear of it. I said, well, OK … if he was sure. There was a few seconds’ silence. Then he started telling me about a fire at the Princess Margaret houses. It had happened a few hours earlier and one of “his” kids—a fifteen-year-old named Troy—had been arrested on suspicion of arson. “That boy is a tragedy waiting to happen. Five people were in that house. It’s a miracle nobody was killed.”

  We were discussing Troy’s prospects for the future and agreeing that they looked pretty grim when Huck stopped. “Sophie, you know what we were talking about this morning?”

  “Which bit?”

  He looked down at his wineglass. “The bit where I told you I used to have a crush on you …”

  “Huck, if you’re embarrassed about that, please don’t be. It was years ago. We were kids.”

  “I know, but the thing is … God, I’m not sure I know how to put this … the thing is, I think I still have a crush on you. When we bumped into each other in the supermarket, all the old feelings I had for you came flooding back. It was like no time had passed. Of course I realize you probably don’t feel the same way. I mean, why would you? It’s been years, plus you’ve just been through a marriage breakup and you’re still struggling with that. I really have no right to burden you with my feelings.” He stood up and put his wineglass down on the coffee table. “I think I’ll head up to my room. I’ve said too much.”

  By now I was on my feet. I went over to him. “Huck, you are not burdening me. Honestly.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If I’m honest,” he said, “the real reason I asked you out was because I wanted to get to know you again—that’s not to say I didn’t value your help and advice as well. I’m incredibly grateful—”

  “Huck.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you please stop talking and kiss me?”

  “You want me to kiss you?”

  “I think it’s customary under these circumstances, don’t you?” He was so nervous, so hesitant. I couldn’t believe that this was the man they used to call Huck the Fuck.

  “Yes, but I need to be sure you’re OK with it. I know you’re still feeling vulnerable—”

  “Will you just come here … ?”

  I put my arms around him and kissed him gently on the lips. He didn’t protest. Instead he kissed me back. A moment later we were making out like a couple whose plane was going down.

  I took him by the hand and we climbed the stairs to the attic.

  • • •

  That night, as Huck touched, caressed, probed and entered me, made me come again and again, it was like discovering sex for the first time—only heaps better because we were both experienced.

  The next morning, when we woke we made love again. Twice. At my instigation. Huck laughed and called me insatiable. He was right. I’d lived through a famine and I was ravenous, starved. I couldn’t get enough of him.

  “Huck, you have to tell me if I’m too much, too needy. Greg and I— Well, let’s just say it’s been a long time …”

  “Soph, please don’t apologize. Last night and this morning have been amazing. Truly amazing.”

  “So what happens now?” I said as we lay cuddling. “I mean, it’s all a bit awkward. You live here, so you can hardly pull on your pants and go home, leaving me sitting by the phone hoping you’re going to call and ask me out again.”

  He began stroking my hair. “OK … Ring, ring …”

  I started laughing. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Huck. Listen, I just wanted to say that I had a great time last night. Any chance you’d like to get together again?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question. But there’s one proviso. We never sleep together when Amy and Ben are in the house. And for the time being, I don’t want them to know there’s anything going on between us. Let’s just see how things develop and wait until we’ve got something to say.”

  “Absolutely. Point taken.”

  • • •

  Huck spent the rest of the day working on his article for the Vanguard. Once he’d finished, he asked me if I’d mind taking a look at it. I was about to when the phone rang. It was Phil.

  “So,” I said, “how did the conversati
on with Dad go?”

  “Actually, I haven’t had it yet. I’ve been building up to it. But I think I’ve finally plucked up the courage. I’m walking over to the bungalow as we speak. The thing is, I haven’t got a clue what to say. I mean, how on earth do you begin that kind of conversation?”

  “OK … Well, I think you need to come straight to the point. Don’t pussyfoot. It’ll make it much harder for both of you.”

  “So what do I say? ‘Hey, Dad, how’s it hanging? Oh, and by the way, I hear you and your buddies have been having group sex with some cheap hooker called Anita.’”

  “No, what you do is you sit him down and tell him that the two of you need to have a serious talk. Then you tell him you know about Anita.”

  “God, can you imagine the man’s embarrassment? Not to mention mine.”

  “Can you imagine Mum finding out?”

  “Point taken. OK, I’m hanging up now. I’m at the house.”

  “Good luck and let me know how it goes.”

  “Will do … Soph, wait.”

  “What?”

  “The living room curtains are open.” Phil was whispering now.

  “So?”

  “So I can see right in.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong— Oh … my … God. They’re naked.”

  “Who’s naked?”

  “Mum and Dad. And a load of other old people. There must be a dozen men and women in the room. And they’re all naked. Nobody’s wearing any clothes.”

  “It’s OK, Phil—I may not be a doctor, but I know what naked means. So who are these people?”

  “I dunno. Friends from the old folks center maybe. And there’s this woman with a camera. Shit, Soph. I think there’s some kind of orgy going on and the woman’s photographing it. This is sick. Truly sick.”

  “And Mum’s there, too? I don’t believe it. What the hell is going on?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out. OK … I’m going in.”

  “No, Phil, don’t! If Mum and Dad are into weird, pervy sex, it’s none of our business. Get out of there—”

  But I was too late. Phil had hung up.

  Ten minutes later he was back on the phone.

  “Jeez, Phil, what on earth happened in there?”

  “I made a total arse of myself, that’s what happened. I barged in, guns blazing, demanding to know what the hell was going on. It turns out that this Anita woman is actually Anita Delgado—I’d never heard of her, but she’s some famous portrait photographer. Has had exhibitions all over the world, apparently.”

  I said the name rang a vague bell. “What, and she’s into photographing old people having sex? Very nice.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that. Her latest project is a study of old age. It’s due to be shown at the Museum of Modern Art this summer.”

  “OK, but why photograph the old people naked?”

  “She says it’s all about empowering the elderly. It’s about them showing the world that they’re not ashamed of their wrinkles and saggy bits and that they’re proud of who they are. She wants the world to start noticing old people and stop treating them as if they’re almost invisible. She’s calling the exhibition Gray Pride.”

  “Huh. I like that.”

  “Anyway, Mum and Dad got involved after she advertised for sitters. Turns out Dad was intrigued because the idea of becoming invisible really resonated with him. Plus Anita had a budget for the project and was paying fifty dollars a session. So he went along to see her and took a couple of his buddies for moral support. The men went home and talked to their wives. Various meetings were held and in the end everybody decided that the idea had political as well as artistic merit and they agreed to sit for a series of photographs. Today Anita was shooting a group portrait.”

  “Huh. Mum and Dad allowing themselves to be captured in all their naked glory. Who’d have thought? But why didn’t they say anything to us?”

  “They were scared we’d disapprove.”

  “Gail might have, but once I was certain it was all aboveboard, I’d have been all for it.”

  “Me, too,” Phil said. “In fact, I’m really proud of them, aren’t you? I mean, it takes some guts to do something like that.”

  I agreed that it did. “But there’s something I don’t understand. Where does Dad’s porn stash fit into all this?”

  “It doesn’t. God, he was furious with me when I admitted I’d been snooping and found it. Anyway, the bottom line is, our parents have, shall we say, a rather creative sex life.”

  “Oh, stop it. Mum and Dad are into porn? I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, you’d better believe it, because they both admitted to it.”

  “Really? … I don’t know what to say. For the first time in my life, I’m starting to think that we don’t know our parents. I mean, what else are they going to hit us with? Have you checked the backyard for cannabis plants?”

  My brother laughed. “You know what, though? Regarding their porn habit, I have to confess I’m a bit jealous. I mean, Betsy and I, we’ve never—”

  “No, Greg and me, neither.”

  As soon as I got off the phone from Phil, I called Gail. I might have misjudged her, because once she’d gotten over the shock, it became obvious that she was rather taken with the idea of our parents’ being “hung” in the Museum of Modern Art. “Omigod, can you imagine? I can see it now: walls of Picassos, Mirós, Warhols and then you’ve got Mum and Dad. This magnificent photographic portrait. And who cares if they’re naked? The way I see it, this is a glorious celebration of old age. People will be so impressed. I can’t wait to see Sharon Shapiro’s face when I tell her.”

  On the other hand, when I told Gail about our parents’ porn stash, she claimed to be disgusted.

  “As you know, Murray and I have a very rich and creative sex life, but we’ve never watched porn. It’s so tacky and lower middle class, a bit like clip-on bow ties.”

  But I could tell she was just as jealous as Phil and me.

  • • •

  “What was all that about?” Huck said when I finally got off the phone.

  I explained.

  He roared with laughter. “Brilliant. Go, geezers!”

  I put the kettle on and started reading Huck’s Vanguard piece.

  “Feel free to be as hard as you like,” he said. “I’m no wordsmith.”

  But he was. Not only that, but he’d painted a picture of life at the Princess Margaret houses and outlined what he thought needed to be done to improve the lot of the families living there—namely improvements to the benefits system—without being mawkish or strident.

  “It’s brilliant,” I said. “They’re going to love it … once I’ve sorted out all your split infinitives, that is.”

  “Show me! Where have I split an infinitive? Where?”

  I started laughing and assured him I was only teasing.

  “Oh, by the way, Greg will be dropping the kids off soon. I think maybe I should introduce you.”

  Huck was less than keen. “But I’ve just had sex with his wife. This is going to feel awkward, to say the least.”

  “Soon-to-be ex-wife,” I pointed out. “And why should it be awkward? It’s not like we’re going to tell him we’re sleeping together.”

  “I know and I’m probably being paranoid, but I just have this feeling he’ll put two and two together.”

  I told him he was being ridiculous. “And even if he did put two and two together, it’s none of his beeswax who I sleep with.”

  • • •

  After Huck and Greg had shaken hands, they seemed to feel obliged to engage in a few minutes’ small talk.

  “So, you’re settling in OK?” Greg said.

  “Absolutely fine. Sophie’s been a great help, sorting me out with new furniture.” I noticed Huck playing with the loose change in his pocket. “Oh, and I’ve finished the piece on the Princess Margaret houses. I’ll e-mail it to you tomorrow.�
��

  “Great. I’ll look forward to reading it.”

  “It’s excellent,” I chipped in. “Right up the Vanguard’s street.”

  By now Greg had retreated virtually to the front door. It was obvious that he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  • • •

  Contrary to Des’s predictions, the strike was showing no sign of coming to an end. Like everybody else on the picket line, I was worried sick about how long I could last money-wise. The rent on the attic room would help, but it wasn’t a complete rescue plan. It was Huck—or rather the wild jungle sex I was having with Huck—that managed to keep my spirits up.

  The days I wasn’t helping man the picket often coincided with Huck’s working a late shift. That meant he was home until midafternoon. As soon as I got back from the school run—a consequence of the strike that the kids were really enjoying—Huck and I would head for the attic. We spent hours making love. I was still ravenous and greedy. I wanted to devour him, be devoured. And he obliged, with bells on. Afterwards we would lie in bed cuddling, eating and making crumbs and talking about his plans for the youth club if only he could raise the money.

  So long as we weren’t actually doing it when Coffee Break aired, I usually made a point of listening. Huck said he didn’t know how I could bear to have it on, but like everybody else who’d worked on the program, I had this gruesome need to find out how bad the program had become. Pretty bad was the answer.

  When STD wasn’t discussing vajazzle dos and don’ts or the hottest celebrity fringes, she was interviewing women whose nipples were bigger than their boobs or who were sleeping with their daughters’ boyfriends.

  If Huck had an entire day off, we might take a drive into the country and have a pub lunch. Sometimes we’d take in an early afternoon movie—along with small groups of seniors who got in half price and spent the ninety minutes asking each other what was going on and who was who. In between they rustled candy wrappers.

  Once or twice—when the temperature went above freezing—we took a stroll along the South Bank. Huck enjoyed checking out the secondhand-book stalls. I preferred looking at the stalls full of arty handmade jewelry.