Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) (30 page)

“Is there a reason you summoned me to your office?”

“Yes,” Jean expelled. The smell of French fry grease zoomed up Victoria’s nose. She winced and held her breath until clean air replaced the odor. “I need you to pick up equipment from my house tomorrow morning. My chefs and salad room staff need it for a last minute catering event but I have a conference to attend tomorrow and you live the closest to me.”

Victoria stiffened, her mouth unable to form any conceivable words. Jean’s residence churned repulsive images through her head. Filth, yard sale debris, dog hair, foul odors.

“Well?”

“I don’t know your address.”

“I’ll give it to you obviously, you dimwit. Did you think you’d just drive around blindly? Sometimes I wonder about you, Victoria. You portray this air of intelligence but it may just be a smokescreen like those lavish suits of yours.”

Victoria struggled upward with the slip of paper in her hand. A wet, brown stain curled the edge of the paper. She swallowed hard, her throat burned with blistering pain. She drifted out her door and into the hallway like an aimless ghost.

At least the conference would keep Jean out of work tomorrow. The week progressively deteriorated and a Friday conflict with Jean would put her over the edge. The three of them, at one point so euphoric, now funneled toward an ever-expanding hole of hell. When did it all go so horribly wrong?

****

Victoria drove to Jean’s house at seven o’clock the following morning. She parked along the street and contemplated whether to hike up the gravel driveway or the crumbling cobblestone walkway intertwined with weeds. The crabgrass lawn guaranteed a few hidden surprises for her.

Her heel wedged into one of the cracks but the eeriness remained in front of her. Shrubs donned with badly tossed fake spider webs, which appeared more like blobs of cotton on a string. Clumps of the polyester fiberfill garnished only the top of one bush and lay low across the bottom of a distant one. A small gravestone made from cardboard, smack dab in the middle of a burnt dirt lawn, had the word
Died
illegibly handwritten across it. One hospital latex glove, inflated and hung from a tree branch, blew in the wind. She neared the door and grimaced. To her left stood a rusted propane tank propped next to the stairs with a rotted pumpkin on top of it and a weathered picture of a lobster attached to it.

She rang the splintered doorbell and waited. The doors bond held tight, then released with a swoosh of air. A man in his late sixties wearing a faded grey sweat suit stood before her.

“Good morning. I’m Victoria, I came to pick up equipment for Jean.”

“Yes, yes. Come in. Please do.”

Victoria stepped in and the musty odor surrounded her instantly. She tried not to gawk but the yard sale décor jarred her memory of every decorating blunder she read about in her magazines.

“Nice of you to come, I’m Stewart.”

“Nice to meet you.” She extended her arm to meet his.

“Jean insisted I show you around, especially her plantings. She’s very proud of them.”

Victoria wanted to grab the needed items and run but his kind gestures tugged on her empathy. She followed behind him, passing oddities such as a wrought iron starburst clock from the sixties, orange and yellow striped kitchen wallpaper, and her owl figurine collection. They strolled by the Danish walnut credenza which matched the dark wood paneling lining the hallway.

He led her toward the enclosed mudroom; the whistling of polar air through the broken screen window chilled her exposed legs.

Jean was the recycling ambassador. Every scrap of garbage that could retain soil, transformed into a container to nurture weeds. No, she meant flowers. Of course she did. There must have been flowers growing at one point. Somewhere. Hopefully Stewart would point a few out.

Three-liter soda bottles decapitated, soup cans with the labels still adhered to them, a potato chip bag sliced in half and dog food cans, all contained soil and some form of greenery. There were a few clay pots strewn around but they were cracked and neglected.

He struggled to open the once sliding glass door and then entered the backyard. Victoria tried desperately to hide her stunned appearance from poor Stewart. She must have looked as if she witnessed the ruins or a hurricane but composed herself before he turned around to meet her gaze.

Stewart led her through more crabgrass to the grounds beyond the disintegrating cement patio near the row of untrimmed bushes. The only color appeared to be the remains from a few green weeds that survived the cold night temperatures. Where were the luxurious gardens?

“She really does a lot with the plantings,” Stewart said. “It’s a hobby and I know she really enjoys it.” His shoulders drooped like a flower in the rain. “I wish I had her strength, her health.”

Victoria scanned his expression but did not know how to respond. She offered a grin instead.

“My health’s been ailing. My diabetes catching up on me after all these years. Doc says I might need dialysis pretty soon.”

“I’m so sorry,” Victoria finally responded, “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well Jean keeps her home life pretty private I figure. But she truly is my nightingale. She’s my nurse, my cook, my chauffer.” He bent to pick up a branch from the ground and tossed it into a pile of leaves, undoubtedly there from last fall. “Might need surgery on my foot now, toes aren’t looking so good.”

Victoria tried to picture Jean caring for him. Her brusque nature at work left any visions of compassion for the imagination. Stewart’s fingers formed a steeple then folded together under his chin. His distant, unfocused smile revealed the deep affection he had for his wife.

“You’re very lucky to have her,” Victoria found herself saying.

“I am. She’s my best friend and I worship that woman. I only wish I could do as much for her as she’s done for me.” His voice cracked as he laid his hand over his heart. He peered down to Victoria’s left hand noticing her simple gold wedding band. “You married long?” he asked.

“It’ll be thirty years tomorrow.”

“Lucky man. I hope he appreciates you as much as I appreciate Jean. Treats you like a princess.”

Victoria swallowed hard, dropped her chin to her chest and managed to raise her lips enough to imitate a smile.

“Sorry, I’ve been talking your ear off. You have to get yourself to work. Come on, let me help you with the items.”

Victoria walked a few paces behind Stewart, lagging behind as her heels sunk into the moist grass. When a squish penetrated her ears and glued her shoe to the ground, she glanced down and noticed the pile of dog poop she stepped in. She padded the rest of the way, dragging her shoe in the crabgrass, releasing as much of the wet mess as she could.

Stewart helped her lug the four kitchen bowls, seven platters and an array of utensils into Victoria’s back seat. When they carted the last of it from the house, he grabbed hold of the roof of her car in obvious discomfort.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah sure, just gotta elevate my feet the rest of the day.”

“Thank you for showing me around and for helping me load everything into my car.”

“No problem, glad for the company. We don’t get many guests here.”

She smiled, knowing why.

Chapter 46
Heather

Heather pulled her car into the driveway thankful it was Friday. Jean took the day off and Heather took advantage by leaving work at 3 o’clock. She trudged into the house toward her bedroom to remove her clothes.

Heather opened the bedroom door and Laurel, near her jewelry box, slammed the drawer shut.

“Borrowing my jewelry? I don’t mind if you do but please ask first.” Heather plopped onto the edge of her bed and removed her shoes.

Laurel did not budge. Her mouth slackened and she turned away.

“What’s wrong?” Heather asked. Laurel’s widened eyes worried her. “Did you lose an earring? Break a necklace?” Laurel glanced back at the jewelry box. “Laurel, I won’t be mad. It’s all costume jewelry I bought for myself, nothing of real value. Please tell me.”

Laurel opened the drawer and pulled something out. Heather strained to see and then lumbered over to her. Laurel held a picture in her hand. It was Silvatri and her on the top of a large boulder when they were in the Gunks. Hugging. Her favorite picture. She forgot she hid it there. When she first saw the picture, she thought love and adoration filled Silvatri’s expression. Seeing it now, he looked more like he had a hard-on.

Laurel threw Heather a scorching glare. Heather jolted out of her memory and into the awareness of what Laurel presumed. “Who is this?” she demanded.

Heather’s body locked, her clammy hand took hold of the picture. She fumbled for words, her cheeks now burning. “He’s one of the guys I went climbing with that Saturday. I told you a whole group of us went.”

“Let me see the other pictures,” Laurel said.

She had deleted them all, only printing this one. “I didn’t bring my camera, I forgot. One of the women took this and gave it to me.”

“Why would she only give you this picture of you hugging some guy?”

Shit.

“And why is it buried under your bracelets?”

“I forgot it was even there.”

“That doesn’t answer the question mom. Who is he?”

Heather had never lied to any of her daughters, never had reason to. The two of them also shared a special bond that only a mother and her first-born daughter could.

She rubbed her sweaty hand down her skirt. She gave Laurel a quick scan then back at the picture. Her posture stooped, she fidgeted, then her gaze darted around the room. “He’s the main guy that got us all started.”

“Why are you hugging him? Mom, are you dating him?” Laurel crossed her arms.

Heather stood solidly, adjusted her chin and laughed. “Dating?” She flung the picture onto her dresser. Absolutely not. He’s an arrogant, conceited butthead. “Sheryl…” she made up a name “...gave me this as a joke. We don’t get along and she made him hug me because he picked on me all day. That’s why we look like we’re smiling. We’re actually laughing at the awkwardness of it all.”

Laurel crinkled her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side. Heather continued to smile. Laurel picked the picture up and looked at it again. Heather hoped his hard-on facial expression stood out more than the one of love. “He does look like a jerk.” Laurel said.

“Yup, totally.” Heather’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “Did you want to borrow some jewelry?”

“Nah, your stuff is lame.” Laurel strolled out of the room and back into her bedroom.

“Lame?” Heather shouted down the hall at her. She picked up the picture again and surveyed it one last time. Silvatri appeared different again, as if the image kept transforming. Not horny like she first rationalized. Now he looked genuinely euphoric, like Heather made him the luckiest man in the world.

Did he secretly have feelings for Heather but hid them, lied to protect her? Had he realized he did it again, fell in love with another and repeated his pathetic history? Had he tried to spare her the misery the other women faced? She’d never know for sure, but believed strongly in karma.

She hid the picture at the bottom of her cedar chest and changed into sweat pants with a long sleeve Giants T-shirt. She threw on her purple Converse high tops and decided to lift weights in the den while the girls watched TV.

She finished off a set of squats when she heard rattling in the garage.

Lance rifled through a milk crate and tossed rags across the floor along with car wash soap and a chamois.

“What are you looking for?” Heather asked.

“I’m looking for the Armor All for my Corvettes tires.”

“Your Corvette?”

He stood and looked on the shelf. “This is my house and it’s overrun by girls.”

“We live here too, it’s our home.”

Lance faced her, the scowl on his face dropped and his eyes squinted. “What are you wearing? Can’t you be normal?”

“Normal?” Heather’s eyes ate him with hate.

“Why can’t you be like the other wives that cater to their husbands and act like real mothers? Can’t you understand your place is at home and volunteering at the school and trying to make me happy? That’s your job. When did you become this deviant non-conformal wife?”

“That’s the problem, I was always this person! You just tried to transform me. I’m not a soccer mom or a PTA mom, and I’m not going to pretend to like the wives of your lawyer friends. I don’t huddle at the bus stop gossiping or feel the need to be involved with every school activity to show off how wonderful I am and pretending I’m doing it for my kids when my poor kid’s wandering around the gym by herself.”

“You’re nuts,” Lance said. “Absolutely crazy.”

“I love who I am and in case you still haven’t figured out who that is…I’m different. I love Converse high tops, my
Felix the Cat
T-Shirt and my Jeep. I love rock climbing and weight lifting and how strong and powerful they make me feel, like I can conquer anything. I don’t follow stupid rules and I hate conforming. I love exploring museums and zoos with my girls, playing silly board games, and venturing off to an amusement park or beach with them. But most of all I love talking to them.
That
they’ll remember twenty years from now, and all I can hope is that they know how much I love them.”

Lance struggled up and shoved the car products back in the milk crate. The car wash slammed against the crate. “I don’t need this, you’re sick.”

“I’ve always been this girl, and I always will be and I’m tired of trying to be who you want me to be or make you love who I really am.”

Lance kicked the milk crate against the garage wall. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “There’s something seriously wrong with you, Heather.”

“Yes, there is. I married the wrong man. And don’t bother coming with us tomorrow either. It’s a party for my friend, not you. I wouldn’t want to see you cry because no one was paying attention to you.” ”

“My mother was right about you all along. She said you would never take care of me like her and she was right.”

“Your mother? Take care of you? I’m not your mother! I’m your wife and you’re a grown man.” Heather shifted to her right. “Your mother’s the one that’s sick, she’s a fuckin’ nut case.”