Wife-In-Law (3 page)

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Authors: Haywood Smith

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Wife-In-Law
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I still marveled that a man like Greg cared so much about someone like me. “Goodness. I’ll be safe as a bank.”
“Safer,” he said. He rose, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I think I will watch a little TV. The Braves are on.”
And once again, all was right with the world. Except for those hippies.
 
 
The next day, I drove Greg to the airport and kissed him off, then came straight home so the workmen could install the alarm, complete with battery backup and a direct connection to the police and fire departments, plus smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, and a panic button by my bed. Having it made me feel secure.
It felt a little odd to be alone in our king-sized bed that first night, but I was worn out from cleaning up after the workmen, so I didn’t even make it through Johnny Carson’s opening joke before I fell asleep. It was almost midnight when the phone rang beside the bed.
I fumbled for the receiver, then said a groggy, “Hullo.”
“Hey,” Greg answered. “Sorry. Did I wake you up? I forget, it’s an hour earlier here.” His voice sounded weary.
I rolled over in the dark. “Can’t think of anybody I’d rather have wake me up. How was day one in Chicago?”
“Worse than I thought,” he confessed. “Turns out the client’s trusted comptroller has been embezzling for years through dozens, maybe hundreds, of dummy accounts. It’ll take me fourteen hours a day to track them all down and assess the loss before the close of the business year. Then I have to devise a more secure set of bookkeeping protocols to reduce the risk of having it happen again.”
I was touched that he’d finally confided in me about his work. “Wow. Sounds like a job for Superman. Good thing they’ve got you to take care of it.”
“Thanks. That’s nice to hear,” he said, then yawned. “Whew. I’m beat. Did they get the alarm in?”
“Yep. The code’s 19481952,” I told him, “the years we were born. I put yours first because it came first.”
“Good idea.” He yawned again. I could picture him in his hotel room, tie loose, eyes drooping, and I missed him.
“Did they test it out?” he asked.
“Did they ever,” I said, remembering the earsplitting racket it made. “You never heard such noise. The hippies probably thought it was a tornado alert.”
“Good.” He yawned again. “Oh, speaking of the hippies, that police captain said he checked them out, and we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“How could he be so sure, so fast?” I asked, skeptical.
“Don’t know, but the guy was adamant. He did say he’d have a patrol car come by to check our house as often as they can, though, just in case. So I guess that’s it.”
“Okay, then.” I still had my misgivings, but caught myself starting to nod off in the pause that followed.
“Guess I’d better go,” Greg said. “Want to get into the office by six.”
“Be sure you eat well, honey,” I told him. “You have to keep up your strength.”
“I won’t be able to find cooking as good as yours,” he said, “but I’ll make sure to eat.”
“Sweet dreams,” I told him, just the way I always did when he was there beside me.
“Sweet dreams.” He hung up, and I went back to sleep, safe in the confines of the alarm system.
Greg called every night at first, but we quickly ran out of things to tell each other. Apparently, he couldn’t discuss anything else about the client. He was working a killer schedule, and I was keeping busy with the house. Not a lot to talk about there.
So we lapsed into talking only every few days, which was okay with me, because I knew he was putting in long hours instead of hanging around Chicago alone with nothing to do with his evenings.
I managed fine the first week, but by Tuesday of the second, I’d run out of things to do. I’d scrubbed my poor house to smithereens, ironed everything I could get my hands on, including the sheets, and discovered that churches and charities don’t usually do much in the summer, so service work was out till fall. My freezer was full of home-cooked food, and there was not so much as a single weed or shred of crabgrass in my lawn or flower beds.
I read, of course. I’d always loved to read, but after the third or fourth book, I started having this nagging feeling that I should be
doing
something. For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t have anybody to take care of, and it didn’t feel good, I can tell you.
I’d always been the doer. I had no idea how to be a be-er.
I actually considered going over to Mama’s and cleaning, no matter what she said, but she’d probably have a nervous breakdown, for real, so I didn’t.
As for the hippies, criminals or not, I wasn’t inclined to make any further overtures. They hadn’t even returned my dishes, much less called to thank me or come to visit, so all was quiet on their side of the street. I hadn’t even seen them since Greg left, but I knew they weren’t out of town. The Vanagon was gone at intervals—I sometimes heard its beetley retreat—but the only other sign of life from their place was charcoal smoke and the smell of barbecued chicken from behind it on Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t jealous. Their backyard got the full force of the afternoon sun, so it must have been hot as blue blazes back there.
At sixes and sevens on Tuesday afternoon, I decided, late, to drive down to my favorite fabric shop in Atlanta for some material to make drapes for the guest bedroom, the last bare window in the house. For supper I stopped by Henri’s Bakery for a sandwich and a French apple tart, so the sun was low and blazing by the time I reached our subdivision. “It’s a scorcher,” the weatherman on WQXI blared cheerfully. “Ninety-one degrees, with eighty-three percent humidity. Three-day forecast, the heat continues, with no relief in sight except for the occasional afternoon or evening shower.” Shower? They were gully-washers. “Lows in the high seventies. Better grab that pitcher of tea and head for the pool. And now, back to our Golden Oldie Hour with ‘Good Vibrations’ from the Beach Boys!”
Psychedelic music filled the car as I reached our cul-de-sac and turned in to see what looked for all the world like a funeral tent in the hippies’ front yard, shaded from the sun by their house. Underneath it sat some chairs, with a little blue boat about four feet long, so small that the motionless arms and legs of the person inside it were hanging over the edges.
I slowed. Dear Lord. Please tell me that’s not some dead
body
they’re going to bury in their front yard. Surely that was illegal.
To my relief, the body reared up and hollered in Kat’s unmistakable accent, “I
said,
bring me some more ice, ’fore it all melts. I’m dyin’, here!”
I couldn’t help myself; I pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window to ask, “Are you okay? Do I need to call for help?”
Kat sat up, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, Lord, no. I’m just hot.”
On closer inspection, I saw that the boat was really a boatshaped kiddy pool, and the hose was running into it, setting up a steady overflow that watered their thirsty new sod.
Kat tucked her feet back into the water with a wry smile. “I never had a house before. We always rented. I remembered to pay the water bill and the
mortgage,
” she said, elongating the last word, “but I completely
fergot
about the power. So when the builder’s line got turned off, we didn’t have any juice.”
She was so calm about it, and so
honest. I
certainly wouldn’t have told anybody if I’d done something that dumb, much less somebody I barely knew. Who lived across the street.
Kat went on. “It’s a hunnerd and ninety-seven inside, so we borrowed this tent from a friend of ours, just till we get hooked back up.” She turned toward the house to bellow, “Zach! If you melted in there, please tell me! Otherwise, bring me some more
ice
!”
She said the word like “aaahs.”
I spotted a couple of deflated air mattresses by one of the chairs. “How long will it take to get your power back?” I asked. Surely they weren’t planning to sleep out there, with all the bugs and the heat.
“Not till tomorrow.”
Zach erupted from the front door with a heavy cooler, his tattooed biceps bulging as he brought it down the front stairs. “You want
aaahs,
” he mocked good-naturedly, “you’ve got
aaahs
.” He tipped it over the boat and dumped in at least three bags’ worth, sending a small tsunami over the gunnels.
Kat shrieked with delight. “Aaaaggh! That feels fabulous!”
Zach laughed. “Well, enjoy it, ’cause that’s the last of it.” Then he turned and granted me a smile from the depths of that nasty beard. “Hey there, Betsy Freakin’ Callison.”
“Hey.” Suddenly, I was all too conscious of the fact that I’d been gawking at their misfortune. Without any conscious participation on my part, I heard my voice say, “It’s too hot and buggy for y’all to sleep out here. You’ll get eaten alive. Why don’t you stay with me? I’ve got plenty of room, and plenty of air-conditioning.”
I did
not
just ask a couple of unmarried hippies to spend the night under my roof! When my husband was away!
Kat jumped up out of the water with a shriek of joy. “Would we ever! Just give us time to get changed, and we’ll be right over.”
Dear Lord. There was no taking it back now.
Zach nodded in gratitude. At least I think it was gratitude. Hard to tell with all that hair.
I hoped he was at least planning to put on a shirt under his overalls. I shuddered to think what else might or might not be under there.
Kat splished toward her door, then turned to point at me and say, “Now,
that
is what I call a good neighbor.”
Suddenly queasy, I waved my fingers, then rolled up the power window and backed up, then headed for my garage.
Please don’t let anything bad happen, I prayed in general. And please don’t call tonight, I prayed in Greg’s direction. When he found out, he was going to have a
fit
.
 
K
icking myself for what I’d done, I tucked away the fabric in the sewing station I’d set up in the closet of the third bedroom. Then I went to the guest room and put a drop of vanilla on the light bulb before turning back the seersucker coverlets and crisp white sheets on the beds. I was plumping the pillows when the doorbell rang.
A shard of adrenaline went through me.
Why
had I done this?
I did my best to compose myself on the way to the door. I opened it to find Kat wearing an almost-normal sundress, her wet hair pulled back into a low ponytail, and Zach in clean jeans and a T-shirt that was only slightly damp with sweat from the walk over.
“God bless you fer this,” Kat gushed as I motioned them inside. She inhaled a huge breath of cool air. “Oh, man, does that feel good.”
Smiling, Zach scanned my living room. “I swear. Betty Freakin’ Crocker.”
Kat elbowed him, hard, in the side. “Shut up, Zach. This woman rescued us from spendin’ the night in a furnace with a million mosquitoes. Don’t make fun of her just because she’s a better housekeeper than I am.” She looked over my perfect parlor. “This is beautiful. Did you have a decorator?”
Not a polite question, but I knew she meant well. “No, I did the whole house myself.” I stepped toward the hallway. “Let me show you to your room.”
As they followed, Kat took everything in with wide-eyed approval. “Wow. This is gorgeous. You really got a knack.”
When we reached the guest room, they exchanged a brief glance on seeing the twin beds, but didn’t comment, and I didn’t offer to push them together. The last thing I wanted was to hear them humping through the wall.
“Have y’all had supper?” I asked, hoping they had.
Zach’s eyes lit up. “Actually, we were so hot, we didn’t feel like eating.” As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. “But now that we’re cool, I could use a little something. But don’t go to a lot of trouble.”
What did I have on hand? Pork chops in the fridge, and butter peas in the freezer. I could make a salad to go with it. “Do y’all eat pork?”
“Oh, yes,” Zach said eagerly.
“Great. Y’all just relax, then.” I pointed to the little color TV on the dresser. “Watch some TV if you’d like. I’ll have supper ready in half an hour.” I started for the kitchen, preoccupied with ordering my tasks.
Kat followed. “Please let me help.”
Remembering what Zach had said about her cooking, I knew her “help” would only complicate matters, but it would be rude to say no, so I accepted. “Sure. Come on.”
I heard the Braves game coming from the guest room as we entered my eat-in kitchen with French doors onto the back deck.
“Ho-lee crap!” Kat said in awe. “This looks like a magazine.” She peered at the gleaming surfaces. “How do you keep it so clean?”
I responded with a massive understatement. “I like things clean.” I got the butane grill lighter and headed for the deck. “Just let me light the grill, and we can start cooking.”
“A gas grill,” Kat admired, following me to the door, but staying inside the cool as I braved the heat. “I swear, this place is perfect.”
I couldn’t help feeling proud to hear it. Back inside, I headed for the refrigerator to take out the meat and salad things, then start the butter peas cooking. “I know you’re tired from all that heat. Why don’t you just sit down and keep me company while I throw things together?”
I could see Kat was relieved. “Thanks.” She pulled out a chair to face me and sat. “My luck, I’d probably make a mess or break somethin’, anyway.”
Maybe it was her transparency, but I heard myself confide, “I had to learn to cook when I was little. My mother was too sick to do it. I started making recipes from the paper when I was only eight.”
Sympathy clouded Kat’s features. “Wow. Is yer mama okay now?”
“Managing,” I said, wondering why I was telling her. “I still bring her food.”
“In Atlanta.”
“Yeah. Off Defoors.” Too much, I’d told too much. I didn’t even know this woman. “How about you? Is your mother living?”
Kat shrugged. “Beats me. She drank a lot, and it made her mean. Then she took off when I was twelve. Daddy did everything after that, but it broke his heart. He’d cussed liquor so long because of Mama, but after she left, he took to drink too. I tried to help him, but it never worked. Finally it got so bad, I took off and headed for Tenth Street.”
I’d been tempted a thousand times to leave Mama, but never had the courage to do it on my own. “How did you manage?”
Kat grinned. “I met Zach the first day. The rest is history.”
Minus a little thing called a wedding. I put a couple of strips of bacon into the boiling butter peas, then washed my hands and got out the cutting board to make the salad. “Do you like green peppers in your salad?”
She colored, her glance shifting to the side. “Well … I like them, but they don’t like me, if you git my drift.”
“That’s okay. I’ll leave them out.” I reached for my little food diary and opened it to
K
for Kat, then wrote her name, with “no green peppers” underneath.
“What’s that?” Kat asked, alert.
“A list of what everybody does and doesn’t like to eat, so I won’t ever serve them the wrong things.”
Kat’s expression was a mixture of awe and
this woman doesn’t have enough to do.
“Anything else y’all don’t like?” I asked her, pen poised.
“Onions, actually.” She leaned forward to confide, “They make me fart like a biker at a bean-eatin’ contest.”
I couldn’t help laughing. She was crass, but frankly funny.
I couldn’t imagine being so honest. Didn’t she know that people could use that to hurt her? “Okay. No onions for you.” I wrote them down, then skipped to the middle of the page and wrote Zach’s name. “What about Zach?”
“Zach’ll eat anything,” Kat said. “Even
snails
.” The last came with a shudder. “But me … no insects. Not that you’d serve ’em, of course,” she qualified. “And I cain’t stand guts of any form. No chitlins or liver or brains or anything, no matter what kinda animal it comes from. I’d probably be glad to git ’em if I was starvin’ to death, but otherwise,
n-o
.” She smiled. “That’s about it fer me.”
“I’m the same way about liver and all,” I said as I recorded the guts part, though I’d never thought of it in such crass terms. That done, I put the book back alongside
The Joy of Cooking,
then went to wash my hands.
“You think that book up all by yourself?” Kat asked.
I finished my handwashing ritual by drying thoroughly with a fresh white towel, then using some unscented lotion. I washed them so often, they chapped if I didn’t.
“One of my home ec teachers told me about it,” I said. “She was really a great teacher.”
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “I bet you were real good at school, weren’t you? All organized and everything.”
Too much. Too many personal questions, too soon. I turned it around with, “How about you? Did you like school?”
“Yep.” That was a surprise. “I love readin’,” she told me, “but I was a lot better in math. I was takin’ calculus before I quit tenth grade, but that was that.”
The idea of Kat taking calculus in tenth grade seemed like a total oxymoron, but it made me realize I’d definitely made some hasty judgments because of her accent and bad grammar. “Did you ever miss school? Regret dropping out?”
“Oh, I got my GED soon as I hooked up with Zach,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He insisted.”
Good for Zach.
“I’m startin’ college in the fall,” she said with pride. “Got me a scholarship to Oglethorpe.”
Wonders never ceased.
“What about Zach?” I prodded.
She glanced back toward the sound of the Braves game, then told me in a confidential tone, “This is supposed to be a deep, dark secret, but seein’ as we’re neighbors, I’m gonna trust you.” She shot another glance at the hallway door to make sure Zach wasn’t coming, then said, “Don’t let on, but he’s got his MBA. From
Hah-
vahd.” She mimed locking her lips.
I was properly shocked, but that explained his cultured accent.
Then she dropped another little surprise. “Went to work for one of them huge Fortune Five Hundred military-industrial companies, but they used him for a slave and tried to kill his soul. So he finally just dropped out.” She straightened, her features clearing as she draped one arm over the chair. “Never looked back,” she said with pride. “Plumbin’ suits him a lot better. He gits to help people who need him, and he says at least he can be honest shovelin’ the shit fer real. Plus, no pressure.” She grinned. “’Cept water pressure, of course.”
Harvard?
“I knew that would set you back on your heels,” Kat said with glee.
“What would?” Zach asked, his question preceding him into the kitchen.
Kat went scarlet. “Just girl talk. Never you mind.” She pointed to the plate of pork chops. “Why don’t you grill them chops fer Betsy?” She looked to me. “He’s great with the grill. If he wasn’t, we’d both starve.”
I handed Zach the plate with new respect, but couldn’t resist cautioning, “They’re better if they’re not too well done. Well, they do need to be
done,
but not dry.”
He grinned, carefully keeping the food away from his beard. “Done, but not dry, comin’ up.”
While he was doing that, I finished the salads, then hesitated before setting the table. They’d probably feel bad if they knew I’d already eaten, so I decided to set myself a place too. Once everything was done, I put the salads and the bowl of butter peas on the table, then lit the candles.
“Candles?” Kat protested mildly. “You don’t have to use up yer good candles fer us. We’re just grateful to be here.”
“‘Treat royalty like friends and friends like royalty,’” I quoted, snapping the lighter off. “I love making things special.”
Kat peered at me in assessment. “Bless yer heart. Nobody ever made things special fer you, did they?”
In one brief conversation, she’d gotten closer to the truth than any of my other so-called friends. “I just like to do things for people,” I blustered. “Strictly selfish. Makes me feel good.”
Fortunately, Zach arrived with the pork chops, and the conversation shifted to eating. During supper, I steered the topic to the development, and we shared what we’d heard or seen about potential buyers and the beginnings of the swim/tennis club. Both Zach and Kat turned out to be quite witty, and we all laughed a lot. By the end of the meal, something amazing had happened: I felt quite at home with these weirdos.
So when I turned off my bedside light to watch the eleven o’clock news, I did so without a shred of fear. I didn’t even care if my guests were fornicating on the other side of the wall. After getting to know them, it didn’t matter so much. After all, their relationship was their business, really, and Christians aren’t supposed to judge.
I couldn’t wait to tell Greg what had happened. Now that I knew all about the neighbors, he couldn’t get mad at me for rescuing them from the heat.
The trouble was, I only
thought
I knew them. Turns out, transparent Kat wasn’t really that transparent, and Zach had deeper, darker secrets to hide, ones that didn’t blow up (literally) till later.

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