I had no idea how to respond to this so I did the guy thing. I grunted.
Francesca opened the door to the master bedroom and stopped short. I slammed into her back. I was going to ask her what was going on when I noticed the reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
Not again.
Mrs. Kline was shown in profile in the mirror, so at least she hadn’t seen us. She’d shed her unflattering dress in favor of her birthday suit and was bent over her very expensive duvet, moaning in ecstasy. The man behind her, and I do mean behind, was not Mr. Kline, unless Mr. Kline had increased in both height and muscle tone since Monday night. And had managed to shed about twenty years.
I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time I’ve walked in on people having sex. Nor is it the first time I’ve walked in on people having sex who weren’t supposed to be having sex. In fact, I think this might be my modus operandi.
The worst part about this type of discovery is that I’ve never figured out a way to exit with my dignity intact. Each time, I’ve stood there, wondering what I should do next. One might think I could develop a battle plan, like I had for the supermarket, but until it happens to you, you won’t understand the reaction. It takes all of my energy not to laugh.
Or cry. Or scream.
Mr. I’m-not-Mr. Kline was really getting his groove on. A heart pierced by an arrow tattoo decorated his left shoulder blade. For some reason, that made me sad because in this case the pierced heart would belong to creepy Mr. Kline. Of course, Kline could at this very moment be engaged in a similar situation with a woman who wasn’t his wife. The fact that Mrs. Kline’s naked form resembled an age-spotted turkey carcass after Thanksgiving dinner was little solace.
The moaning increased to a fever pitch, and I was pretty sure we needed to either back out of the room now or risk discovery. Thankfully, Francesca made the decision and closed the door.
“Um, I think I’ll come back for my phone at a more convenient time,” I said.
Francesca looked at me and shook her head. We took the stairs at a trot and didn’t stop until we were both outside. Francesca lost it and began to giggle hysterically, and I couldn’t help but join her.
“I guess my sister has her own kind of relaxation planned for this afternoon,” Frannie said as she gasped for air. “That’ll teach me to call first.”
Chapter Four
Despite the wheezing cackles we’d been reduced to, I thought Francesca and I handled the situation with a surprising amount of style. When we ran out of breath, we each made some sincere sounding apologies and excused ourselves. Of course, as soon as I’d recovered, I started laughing again. I wiped tears from my eyes on the way home and had barely regained control by the time I picked the boys up from school.
The boys have had karate every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon from the time they turned five. Neil and I agreed early on that it’s important for the boys to learn self-discipline and confidence. Martial arts do both, plus it gives them something to focus on outside of school. I was glad to see that the local martial arts center offered classes around the same time, so their schedules weren’t completely jolted when we moved.
“How’s it going, guys?” I asked and wiped the last few tears of amusement from my eyes.
Kenny and Josh looked at me funny and clambered into the back of the car. I’d driven to the Intel plant and swapped cars with Neil, since the two-seater Cloud of Death wasn’t something I wanted to transport the kids in. Besides, if I showed up in the van at the school, Kenny and Josh would probably pretend they didn’t know me and get on the bus. The poor kids still have to learn that embarrassment is a part of life, and who better to ease young boys into that unfortunate reality than a wacky mom?
“Jimmy Kendal picked his nose until it bled in the middle of the spelling test. He had to go to the nurse to get it to stop. And then he had to retake the test because the first one was all bloody,” Kenny told me with relish.
“That’s horrible; I hope you didn’t make fun of him,” I said.
“Nah, I was too impressed that he could bleed so much and still be alive.” Kenny believed in brutal honesty.
“What about you, Josh? Did anything interesting happen today?”
“Not really, except Mrs. Martin asked me why I still hadn’t turned in my report.”
I told him about the meeting I’d set up for Monday, glad to see an expression of relief cross his face. Josh is exactly like Neil: they both hate the idea of leaving something unfinished.
Karate went well, with both boys ravenous by the time they got home. They snacked on pretzels and string cheese before heading back to their room to do homework. The phone rang while I prepared dinner, and I grabbed the cordless so I could keep an eye on my chicken cutlets.
“Hello?”
“Um, Maggie Phillips, please?” The female voice sounded hesitant, and it took me a minute to place her.
“Is this Dee?”
“Yeah. I, uh, thought you should know that Marty and I broke up, so he isn’t living with me anymore.”
I dropped my head, feeling the crushing weight of defeat. Dee had been great for Marty, and they’d stayed together for almost three months. I’d only met her once, but I’d liked the pretty, intelligent African American woman, a zoologist in the Bronx. I guess all that animal training still wasn’t enough to deal with my brother.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Dee,” I said. “Do you have any idea where Marty is now?”
“No, we had a huge fight about his new job, and he packed up his duffels and hit the road.”
I cringed from the familiar refrain. “What new job?”
“Trust me,” Dee said. “You don’t want to know.”
She was probably right, and my guilt overwhelmed me. I had been responsible for Marty since our parents’ untimely death, and every time I found out about another scheme, I felt like an even bigger failure.
“Thank you for calling, Dee. I really am very sorry.”
Dee said goodbye, and I hung up the phone. I turned the chicken cutlets and washed some broccoli, wishing my brother had contacted me before he moved out and praying he would call soon to let me know he was safe. I wished it was Sunday so that I could talk to Neil, knowing that it was silly to call and bug him at work when there was nothing either of us could do until Marty surfaced.
Dinner was quiet that night. I pushed food around my plate, and the boys gobbled everything before them so they’d be ready to watch the new Avatar movie on TV. I cleaned the kitchen and had the boys sort out their dirty clothes before I started a load of laundry. Of course, their idea of sorting is much different from my own. They put grays in with the whites and bundle sheets and towels together, breaking laundry commandment number two.
The Laundry Commandments are a big joke in our house. Living in a house full of testosterone has always been like pushing a boulder to the top of the mountain. I would finally feel like I was making some progress, but the next thing I knew, I’d been flattened in the dirt, watching the rock roll back to the bottom. I’d started spouting the Laundry Commandments a few years back, in hopes of making a dent, never once realizing my words were sinking in, but not in the way intended. What had begun as me nagging (I call it ‘explaining’ but Neil insists it’s ‘nagging’) about emptying pockets and using fabric softener had become a chorus of beat Maggie to the punch. Neil and the boys had actually hand carved me an 11x13 sign which now hangs above the dryer.
The Laundry Commandments:
~Thou shall separate thy whites (i.e. socks, undergarments) from thy colored clothes.
~Thou shall not mix thy sheets with thy towels.
~Honor thy (my) lint screen and keep it free of crud.
~Thy workout clothes must be washed with thy towels not my new white top.
~Empty thy pockets of gum, Chapstick, baseball cards, wallets, keys, candy, Swiss army knives, and all other pocket flotsam or thou shall evoke the wrath of the Laundry Goddess.
~Thou shall not
mess with the water temperature settings without my permission.
~Thou must remove clothes from the washing machine in a timely manner, i.e. before the plague of mildew sets in.
~If thou are confused about liquid vs. powdered detergent, ASK!
I could easily imagine Neil working overtime to change “Laundry Goddess” into “Laundry Hag”. It’s a darn good thing I have an excellent sense of humor.
* * * *
Neil arrived home shortly after the boys were in bed for the night. I was dead on my feet and without the energy to tell him about my day. I heated his dinner, kissed him goodnight, and dragged myself into bed. In that blissful state between asleep and awake, where all the hard edges of the world melt away, my body relaxed.
The phone rang. Neil answered it on the second ring and flicked on the overhead light as he entered our room. I groaned and squinted.
“It’s Mr. Kline for you.” He ignored my wave of refusal and held the phone to my ear.
“Maggie, I’m so sorry to disturb you this late, but I heard your 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, which would remain attached to our clothing and would have to be intentionally removed.
Be polite. It was my mother’s voice, which I heard in my head whenever I had a stroke of conscience. Mr. Kline may be a strange little man, but he was still a human being who was being cuckolded by his wife. He deserved at least a modicum of respect, especially from the hired help.
“How are you, Mr. Kline?” I pasted what I hoped was a warm smile on my face.
“Fine, my dear. And how are those little ruffians of yours?”
My smile grew brittle. I guess he assumed ruffian was an affectionate term, but in my mind it was a very small step above hoodlum.
“The boys are very well, thank you.” I looked around pointedly, but he ignored my hint.
“I’m afraid Alessandra has gone out for the day. She was meeting her sister in town for a girl’s day. She asked me to tell you that you had done an adequate job yesterday and she hopes you’re available next Wednesday.”
I gave a noncommittal shrug, mostly due to the fact that I had my own house to prepare for Thanksgiving and one demanding and cantankerous woman was all I could handle in a week.
“Your phone is up in my office,” Mr. Kline informed me. I fought the urge to cringe. Not the office. Anywhere but the office.
I reluctantly followed Mr. Kline upstairs and into the room which had been the setting in a few nightmares in the last week. I’d like to say it was less disturbing in the daylight but I’d be lying.
Mr. Kline went straight to his desk and opened a drawer. He removed, not my phone, but a device that consisted of a belt-like circle of metal and dipped down to an oval shape equipped with teeth. I blinked several times.
Mr. Kline’s gaze had glued to me, and I knew he was waiting for a reaction.
“Is that some kind of dog collar and groomer combination?”
He laughed, and I stepped closer, hoping I could seize my phone and run hell bent for home.
“I’m afraid not. This is a chastity belt.”
Oh, dear sweet Lord in Heaven.
Mr. Kline held it out to me. I didn’t take it. Looking was quite enough for me.
“It is said that the first chastity belt was constructed by Hephaestus, the Greek god of fire. In Homer’s Odyssey, Hephaestus forged a chastity belt for his wife, Aphrodite, when he caught her flagrante delicto with Ares, the God of war. This is why the chastity belt is also known as the girdle of Venus. Quite cle
ver of him, actually.”
I had totally given up on masking my fear. My palms sweated, and I wiped them on my jeans, hoping that Mr. Kline wasn’t implying what I thought he was. It was one thing to lie safe and sound in my bed and discuss the Kline’s marital difficulties with Neil, but talking one on one with Douglass Kline had me shaking in my hiking boots.
Mr. Kline continued his monologue, oblivious to my discomfort. “There are many legends surrounding the chastity belt, probably the most popular being from the medieval period where it is fabled that a knight would fasten the belt to his wife before leaving for the crusades. Can you imagine if he died during battle and she was left wearing this for the rest of her days?” He chuckled sadistically.
“Mr. Kline, I really need to be going,” I segued, but Doug would have none of it.
“It is all a misnomer, since the chastity belt was only intended to be worn for short periods of time, usually to prevent rape when a woman was in a less than ideal situation.” He sighed and with a last wistful look returned the horrible thing to the drawer.
“The road to perdition is paved with good intentions, Maggie. You would do well to remember that.”
Gone was the frantic little maniac, and as Mr. Kline retrieved my phone from the drawer, I felt a tug of sympathy. I may be dense at times, but it was very clear to me that Doug Kline knew of his wife’s infidelity and was wounded by it. I had a hard time imagining him with a ‘Twinkie’, as Neil had suggested. For whatever reason, this weirdo had taken a liking to me, and he seemed so sad and lonely that I couldn’t turn my back and walk away.
“You know, Mr. Kline, er, Doug, you’re a very, um, attractive man.”
What are you doing! my mother’s voice shrieked at me as I took the phone from him.
Quiet, Self! I’m trying to make him feel better. I rested a hand on his shoulder, intending to do some more of my good-pal-bucking-up routine, but I noticed his self-pitying expression had turned to one of bemusement.
The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag - #1 Skeletons in the Closet Page 5
