We spend the remainder of the meal in silence. I stare down at the aged wood table, which looks as if it’s been weathered in a series of torrential storms, and then shellacked to preserve its beaten appearance. It feels solid and substantial. Just like everything else in this place. Including Jack.
I pitch in with the dishes and then Jack accompanies me down to my “room.” Which is pretty much an oversized closet with a tiny bathroom attached. There’s a plaid sofa in the center that looks like a transplant from the set of The Brady Bunch with an old steamer trunk as a makeshift coffee table. The décor is rounded out with a worn braided rug and a couple of mismatched metal file cabinets.
He sets up the sleeper for me. Plumps the pillows. Brings down a clock radio and some bottled water and after I’m thourougly looked after he turns to leave.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Anything for a dame in distress.” He stops and turns, locking eyes with me for a long beat. “I’m right up the stairs if you need anything.”
“I’ll be alright.”
He nods, walking across the threshold.
“Your ex wife was an idiot,” I blurt.
His body stiffens and he speaks without turning. “I told you I didn’t wanna talk about that again.”
“Sorry...I just…”
“Yeah, let’s just forget about it now, alright? Goodnight, Ms. Liza.”
He gently shuts the door behind him and it feels like all the warmth has just been sucked out of the room. I suddenly feel very cold and alone and unbearably tired.
The pullout is lumpy, but I’m too spent to care, and my eyelids become unbearably heavy as my head settles on the pillow…Zzzzzz…..
32
I wake to a knock at the door. Frantic and disoriented, I look around the room.
Oh right. Jack’s dumpy storeroom. Boy, is my life glamorous.
“Come in,” I grunt.
He enters, bringing the aroma of strong coffee with him. It smells nice, though I’m not a die-hard fan of the stuff like the rest of the American population seems to be.
He’s wearing a brown uniform and a matching baseball hat. He hands me the steaming mug and a matching polyester outfit of my very own.
“Are we taking a job at UPS?”
“They’re our disguises.”
“Glamorous.”
“Get dressed, we’ll grab breakfast on the way.”
The bathroom is barely the size of a coat closet. I take a gulp of the sugary coffee then wash my face and brush my teeth, dabbing a bit of Colgate on my finger as a makeshift toothbrush. I feel like a five-year-old at an impromptu slumber party. I really have to shop for the basics.
The uniform is way too big and itchy. I link the last button on the cheap garment, roll up the pant legs, and tie the shirt at my waist.
Not exactly Dolce & Gabbana but it’ll do.
I close the bathroom door behind me and notice a now backwards baseball-capped Jack waiting impatiently. “Don’t I get a hat?” I ask, frowning.
“No. We’re taking your car. Let’s go.”
“Bossy this morning, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are.”
I toss him the keys as we approach the Karmann Ghia. “You drive there, I’ll drive back.”
Jack jingles the keys in delight.
We head north, towards the neighborhood of the fancy market, and end up on a tree lined street with almost identical imposing columned homes built fairly close to one another, but set generously back from the road.
Parella parks the car and grabs clipboards he brought from the shop. He hands me one without ceremony.“Follow my lead.”
“Okay, Bossy McBossington.”
We walk towards a white house with midnight blue shutters. Jack rings the bell. My shirt is rubbing in all the wrong places and itching like crazy. I pull and tug, attempting to make it bearable.
“Settle down.”
“This isn’t exactly what I expected when you said undercover.
“Sorry, maybe next time we can go as ninjas.”
I give him my best death stare. “I wish I had a pair of nunchucks right now, ’cause I’d shove them right up your...”
The door opens, stopping me mid sentence. In the entryway stands a typical suburban trophy wife. Jack and I both quickly don fake plastic smiles to match the one she’s sporting.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Yes, hello. We’re here as representatives from the Swenson's Crème Soda company. We’d like to make sure that you’re receiving your shipments and that you’re still enjoying our product,” Parella says.
“Well, yes. The kids just adore them. They’re off at boarding school and I love to send them little care packages.”
“Oh. So you don’t drink them yourself?”
“Oh, heavens no. My husband and I are on a strict macrobiotic diet.”
I let out a snort. “Yeah. Those macrobiodes are the way to go.”
Jack gives me a discreet nudge. “Okay, then. Thank you for your time.”
“Bye now.”
The glossy red door shuts and we head towards the car.
“Can you please try and act like a professional?” asks Jack.
“Come on. Macrobiotic? Give me a break. The sad thing is, he’s probably eating Twinkies in bed with his mistress as we speak.”
Jack squints, amused. “My, my, the dame has become quite the cynic.”
“I prefer realist.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “So that was a bust. Next house is just up the road.”
We repeat the same shpeel at seven different houses that are all within about a mile of each other and zilch. We’re no closer to finding C Boy than we were before. We approach another stately Georgian. This area is one stately Georgian after another. In fact, even the shrubs are stately. This particular one is white with a charcoal roof. The door and trim are all done in a glossy black along with cast-iron lanterns that flicker with a real flame.
“How many are on the list?”
“Two more.”
“Thank God, because polyester just doesn’t agree with me,” I say, scratching my left boob.
“I’ll remember that the next time I’m shopping for sheets.”
I stare at him blankly as I press the doorbell.
“For my bed...get it?”
“Yeah, I get it. You’re such a child.”
“Please, you want me so bad.”
“Yeah, I want so badly for you to shut the fuc...”
As if on cue the door opens and once again, forced smiles all around. This trophy wife, however, gets a look of recognition on her pixie face.
“Jack?”
“Uhh, yeah. Do I know you?”
She pulls the door closed part way and whispers. “Yes, I’m umm…Jeanine. I bought the Gidget 254 remember? You gave me a big discount.” She winks.
Parella leans in closer to have a better look, because frankly, all these women look alike. Same cookie cutter ash blonde, shoulder length hair, and sparkling white teeth. Complete with Ralph Lauren twin sets. Major Stepford action.
My cell chimes and I scurry under the enormous Camphor tree to check my caller ID in private, while still being within earshot.
Damn. It’s Bernie again.
“Right…Jeanine. So how’d that work out for you?” Jack replies.
Her porcelain face pinches in reply. ”Well, there was some funny business going on, but we went to talk therapy and our life coach is helping us through it,” she whispers. She then clears her throat and revisits her forced electric smile. “But I truly think that it’s brought Bart and I closer together.”
“That’s great. Now quick question, does Bart happen to like crème soda?”
“Well, yes, actually. He takes it down to his special gentlemen’s club; that’s all those old boys drink anymore. Why do you ask?”
“Uhh...just thinking about investing in their stock and I’m doing a survey. That’s why I came by today,” Jack
exclaims with a stilted smile and less than confident delivery.
Jeanine flashes her pearly whites. Again. “Well, what a coincidence.”
“Small, small world.”
She leans in and whispers loud enough for me to hear. “And I think it’s just adorable that you and your girlfriend dress alike. Just cute as a button.”
Parella looks down at his outfit then towards me as I blow a kiss in his direction.
“Yup. She’s adorable, this one,” he says, grabbing the imaginary kiss in his palm.
My phone rings again.
I bat my eyes and shout; “I’ll meet you by the car, love bug.”
“Okay, snookums,” he says rolling his eyes.
I sprint over to the driver’s side door and answer the blocked number call.
“Hello.”
“Liza, please don’t hang up.”
Crap. It’s Bernie.
“Liza, I’m so sorry. I am a complete idiot and I promise it’ll never happen again.”
I’m shaking. Hearing his voice fills me with an odd combination of sadness, nostalgia, and an ugly anger. “I agree. You are an idiot.” My voice quivers. “I hate to be cliché here and say that I gave you the best years of my life, but damn it, Bernie, I gave you the best years of my life!”
“I know. I have no idea what came over me.”
“So it was just the once?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Well…”
“Don’t even bother lying. The pause said it all. How many times Bernie?”
“I don’t know.”
“What, ten? Twenty? Fifty??”
“Maybe twentyish,” he replies feebly.
“Jesus H., Bernie. You have ‘no idea what came over you’ twenty plus times?!”
“Liza, I’m…”
“Don’t, okay! I want a divorce and I want you out of the house by next week.”
“Okay. But I think we should get together to iron out some details.”
“Give me a break. I just found out my husband’s been cheating on me. A lot. I’m not up for ‘ironing’ anything right now. We’ll talk about it in a few weeks.”
“But, Liza...”
“Goodbye, Bernie. And blocking your number was a dirty trick. I won’t fall for it again.”
I hang up and fling my phone across the lawn. Luckily it lands just shy of the sidewalk. Jack, who’s been patiently waiting under the mulberry tree, retrieves it and joins me as I stand with my arms stiffly at my side.
“You okay?”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere I can forget about my crappy life, but first I want to stop for donuts. Give me the keys.”
33
I’m so mad I could spit. Twenty times?! That’s more times than we’ve had sex in the last year! I barely miss a motorcyclist as I speed down the I-93, top down, wind whipping my hair like a carnival ride. I’m driving a little fast and maybe a tad bit erratically. I glance over and notice Parella holding onto the “oh-shit” handle for dear life.
“I mean, can you even believe he had the nerve to call me??”
“Umm… not quite sure what the right answer would be here.”
An old Dodge swerves into my lane without a signal then honks at me. I give him the finger out of the open top of the convertible.
“Wow, the finger? You must be pissed.”
“Not really in the mood for sarcasm just now.”
“Sorry, just trying to bring some levity.”
“Well, don’t.”
He puts his hands up in mock surrender as I pull off the freeway ramp. We travel about a half mile and turn into the drive-thru of the infamous donut shop. There are two cars ahead of us—an old red Dodge and a muddy Jeep with oversized tires. We sit in silence till our turn at the crackling speaker.
“Welcome to Dunkin’ Donuts. How can I help you?”
“A dozen glazed.”
I turn to Jack. “What do you want?”
“Umm…I thought I might partake in that dozen you just ordered.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then. I’ll take two of anything.” He shrugs.
“Add two custard-filled to that and a low fat milk.”
“Your total is seven dollars and eighteen cents. Please drive to the second window.”
As we pull into the parking spot, I’m already downing the last morsel of my first donut. Jack looks simultaneously impressed and disturbed as I promptly stuff another in my mouth.
“I’d say next time don’t answer when he calls and save yourself having to go through this. But then I suppose you are single handedly keeping fried dough proprietors in business.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I wouldn’t have answered but the cheeky bastard blocked his number. Though I would’ve answered eventually. I guess I just had a morbid curiosity about how he would explain...the...well, you know.” I shudder at the visual and my lower lip begins to tremble involuntarily.
“I mean, whatever happened to ‘till death do us part’?” Tears are breaking through now. “I mean…I stayed loyal even when he lost all his hair and his stupid awkwardly shaped head was greasy all the time...” I’ve officially switched to sobbing. “I mean…he really doesn’t have the right kind of head that’s right for baldness you know? Some men do but he just doesn’t. But I never said a word!”
Jack wraps his arm around my shoulder and I weep all over him for the second time in two days. After a few minutes of sniffling and hyperventilating, I blow my nose on a D.D. monogrammed napkin and resume with the donuts. He eyes my milk as I take a sip.
“Don’t even think about it, mister.”
“Right. Of course.” He feigns choking and gasps for air.
“Don’t mind me. Just a little something stuck…no, no, I can breathe. I’ll be fine. I’ll manage.”
He’s got me smiling now in spite of myself, which judging by the self-satisfied look plastered on his face, seemed to be his objective.
“Quite the actor, aren’t we?” I hand him my milk, which he downs in one gulp. “Jerk. Go get me another one.”
“Only if you share your donuts.”
“Fine. Hard-bargain head.”
I hand him a glazed as he opens the car door. I watch him saunter away in the rearview. Quite a swagger. But no matter how good he looks or how good he seems, he is still a man. And men suck.
I stuff another glazed into my mouth and crank the radio. The theme song from Tootsie plays on my favorite oldies station. You know the one that goes, “Something’s telling me it might be you. All of my life.” That was supposed to be the first dance song at our wedding but Bernie thought it was cheesy, so we used “In My Life” from The Beatles instead. My chin starts to quiver again so I quickly turn it off. Luckily Jack’s back with two milks and a smile. He tosses me one.
“So I called my buddy over at the station to run a check on Bartholomew Hudson. Jeanine’s husband. He should have something for us in a few hours.”
“I want to go shopping.”
Jack shoots me a look and feigns excitement. “Oh, yay. Shopping. My favorite.”
“Shut up,” I say, giving him a quick sock on the arm.
“Very ladylike.”
I take a gulp of milk then pull out of the driveway. Jack instinctively goes for the “oh-shit” handle (which makes me swell up with pride).
34
Sometimes Bloomie’s is a girl’s best friend. “Shoes…I need shoes.” We breeze past the home goods section display of assortmented, expensive looking blenders and coffee makers. They make me think of bridal registries, which injects me with a dull sadness.
After being douced with perfume and two escalators we finally arrive at the women’s shoe department. Endless rows of neatly displayed heels, flats, and casuals as far as the eye can see. I grab a pair of red Jimmy Choos, which I’ve heard are wildly celebrated and ridiculously expensive.
Perfect.
I don’t ev
en particularly like heels. They cause me excruciating pain within three and a half minutes of being vertical. But heck, I’ve got Bernie’s credit cards burning a hole in my pocket.
Jack takes turns pacing, sitting on a bench, then pacing some more as I don several pairs of shoes. As I lace a pair of tennies, he looks pointedly at his watch and clears his throat.
“Real subtle, Parella. Give me a break. I’m doing some retail therapy here.”
Ten minutes later I’ve tried on over ten pairs of shoes (including a pair of Sundance Uggs) and paraded in front of a beyond bored Jack whose only comments have been, “Those makes your gams look nice,” and “Very nice, very nice.” Except for the Uggs. He didn’t approve of those at all.
I approach the fresh-off-the-farm-looking salesgirl, complete with rosy apple cheeks and a cute little dimple in her chin. “I’ll take them all,” I announce triumphantly.
Her blue eyes go wide with disbelief and she whispers, “I’ve been saving up for a pair of the red Jimmy Choos, myself.”
“Yeah? Well add a pair in your size to the pile.”
She looks at me agog. “Really?? I mean...I couldn’t...really??!”
“Yes, really.”
She’s all-aflutter with excitement as she glances at Jack.
“Who’s the hottie?” she asks sotto voce.
I follow her gaze. “Oh that’s… Remington Steele,” I manage with a straight face. “He’s a big time private detective.”
She nods approvingly. “Very cool.”
Following the shoe extravaganza we head to the women’s department where I try on and purchase a small fortune’s worth of “career” clothes that will probably end up with the tags still attached and riddled with moth holes. Next stop, the active wear department where I acquire sweats and hoodies in every color and a bunch of plain white t-shirts. Parella resembles a pack mule draped with bags.
What a sport.
I guess he’s embracing the fact that this is my version of lying on a couch telling a stranger my deepest most intimate thoughts.
On our way out I spot a Ralph Lauren Kelly green-striped tie that reminds me of Bernie. As my eyes well up with tears, I realize that no amount of inappropriate credit card spending will heal my bruised ego. And I can strut around in unreasonably high Jimmy Choos all I want, but it won’t bring back my confidence any time soon.
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 7
