“This looks fantastic,” Beth was saying, undoing her seat belt. “I can’t wait to see how they’ve managed inside.”
“I can’t do it,” Barbara Ann said. “I can’t. It’s too scary.”
“Come on, don’t be a wimp. Look what they’ve done out here! It’s got to be an improvement inside. Come on!”
But how had he managed it? she wondered. Mike must have hired someone to paint the house, and she knew they didn’t have the money for that! They’d had plenty of talks about money, over the phone and when they went out to dinner. Mike’s paycheck was just about enough to cover their bills, food and a few of the surprises that came along every month no matter what. Her last advance and royalty had been eaten up on home repairs, maxed-out charges and things the boys needed. She had told him exactly how to juggle things so that he could get from paycheck to paycheck, and she’d promised him that as soon as she got any money from her publisher, she’d make sure he had some. On top of that, he’d forced fifty dollars or so on her every week when they had dinner. She had kept saying, “No, Mike, you’ll need it. I know you guys aren’t eating anything but pizza and junk food. And that stuff’s expensive.” But he had too much pride to think of his wife living off the generosity of her women friends.
“Barbara Ann, give me the keys if you can’t unlock the door,” Beth was saying. “The suspense is killing me!”
“It won’t be locked,” she said, trancelike. “They never learned to lock the doors or turn off the lights.”
“It’s locked,” Beth announced. “Come on, give me your keys.”
Barbara Ann handed over the keys and put a hand over her eyes. She couldn’t take it. The outside looked so nice that, if the inside was a trash heap, it would break her heart. On the other hand, painting and planting was pretty easy. There was no reason to expect that much of the inside just because they’d managed to—
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” Beth said. “Barbara Ann, get in here!”
She stepped over the threshold tentatively. It was only the entryway, the little-used formal living room to her left. It was perfectly clean. There were vacuum cleaner tracks on the rug. The wood accent tables were shiny with oil. She could smell sweet chemicals—soaps, glass cleaners, disinfectants, polish.
“Whew,” Beth said. “It’s really hot in here. Why do you suppose it’s so hot in here?”
Barbara Ann didn’t answer. She wandered into the house, her mouth standing open, her eyes darting around suspiciously. Eventually she’d run across an explanation for this—a pile of trash so big that a semi would have to be called for it. Surely they’d scraped everything from one end to another. The backyard or the garage, she guessed, would be impassable. Or, she would find a bill—thousands of dollars paid to someone to do this to her house, her family all sleeping in their cars so they wouldn’t muss it.
The family room was immaculate. The cushions were all straight on the sofa, love seat and chairs. The magazines were neatly stacked in a wicker basket. The television screen was wiped clean—no fingerprints. No shoes, no pop cans, no plates or wrappers or trash. My God, the walls were painted! Not so much as a smear or scrape anywhere. She gravitated toward the thermostat for two reasons—one, it was sizzling in the house and two, there was a paper taped to the wall. She approached it and read it. 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.—90 5:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.—78. That’s why it was hot. The temperature was turned off during the day to save money. She’d been trying to conserve for years, but someone would tinker with the temperature at will. One of the boys who had stayed up real late and wanted to sleep until 2:00 p.m. would turn the thermostat down to seventy and chill the whole house even if he was the only one at home, rather than plug in a fan. But now, either by law or consensus, the temperature was monitored.
“Hurry up,” Beth was calling. “Come on.”
Beth was already oohing and aahing in the kitchen. “I don’t understand,” Barbara Ann was muttering, “how they could have done it.” The places where the wallpaper was peeling had been patched up. The scuffs and scars on the molding and floorboards had been sanded and stained. The floor shone; the countertops sparkled; the glass twinkled. Where were the dirty dishes? The cereal boxes? The rotting food? There was a new throw rug on the kitchen floor; it was clean and had been recently vacuumed or shook. There was a note on the counter.
B.V.—I had to empty your dishwasher this morning, buttface, so you got mine tonight.
B.V.
Billy to Bobby. Or Bobby to Billy.
“This is how,” Beth said. “Look at this. This is incredible.”
There was a chart on the side of the refrigerator, so large it took up almost the whole thing. There was a list of chores longer than a dead snake; there were five names of those responsible—Dad, Bill, Bob, Joe, Matt. There were days of the week. Some of the chores had to be done every day—dinner, shopping, empty d/w, load d/w, trash, mirrors, k.floor, l.room, water front, water back. Some things were done Monday, Wednesday and Friday—fridge, vacuum, dust, glass, bathrooms, towels. Some things were reserved for the weekend—mow, edge, trim, prune, garage 1, garage 2, pool, patio. And some things were listed for every individual—room, laundry, iron, drawers, closet, sink, toilet, car. Drawers? Closet?
“Unbelievable!” Beth said. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
Barbara Ann couldn’t absorb it. She was still reserving judgment until she saw their rooms, the garages, the backyard. She wandered from room to room, from house to yard, from yard to garage….
The entire house was freshly painted. New throw rugs were laid down in the bathrooms and laundry rooms. New mold-free shower curtains were hung. The deck was freshly stained and weatherall applied. The pool shone in algae-free sky blue. The backyard was cut, trimmed, weeded and landscaped. There were two new pots of flowers on the patio; the patio table and chairs were scrubbed clean. Shelves had been built in both garages; particleboard was applied to the walls, and tools and yard equipment neatly hung there. Bikes were suspended from ceiling hooks and the garage walls and floors had been painted.
The boys’ rooms were immaculate. Billy’s bed was unmade and someone had left a T-shirt on the bathroom floor, but Billy and Joe both had to be at the golf course by 5:00 a.m. Jeans were folded and stacked in space-maker shelves in the closets. The shoes sat in neat rows. Drawers were perfectly tidy—to the extent that a box of condoms was tucked neatly between the socks and BVD’s. The blinds were all open, letting the sunshine flow in and there wasn’t a speck of dust on the blinds. The grout in the shower stalls and around the toilet was scrubbed white—or perhaps replaced—and for the first time in Barbara Ann’s memory, there was not the slightest hint of the smell of urine.
Beth was fluttering from room room, gasping, exclaiming, calling out—“Barbara Ann, you have to see this!”—but by the time Barbara Ann could catch up, she was already skittering on to another room.
When she went to her bedroom, she felt like crying. The bed was made, the bathroom mirror sparkled, the towels hung neatly on the rail, the toilet bowl glistened, and all of Mike’s clothes hung on their hangers. She picked through the shirts—ironed, every one. She finally came across one that had a huge scorch on the back and it caused her a hiccup of emotion. She lifted the lid on the clothes hamper and saw maybe a day’s worth of unlaundered clothes. Barbara Ann sat on the end of her bed, tears running down her cheeks. That’s where Beth finally found her. When Beth saw that she was crying, she knelt before her.
“You must be so proud of them,” Beth said in a reverent whisper.
“Oh sure, but that’s not why I’m crying,” she said.
“Then why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Do you know that if they left for a week and I spent every minute of that time scrubbing and polishing, I could not have made it look this good?”
“I saw the house today,” Barbara Ann told Mike on the phone later that day.
“Oh, honey, you should have told us! We wanted to be ready for you! We
wanted to give you a tour!”
“Well, I was so impressed I almost fainted. Mike, it looked positively wonderful. I can’t imagine how you did it. More than that, how did you have the money to do it? All the painting and landscaping?”
“Oh, that. Well, I did something I should’a done a long time ago, but since I never had to struggle with the bills like you did, I never thought about it. I sat down with the boys one Saturday and we went over every dime. We studied every bill. We got rid of a couple a things, things we could do without. Bobby doesn’t put five slices of cheese on his sandwich anymore. We look things up in the phone book instead of calling directory assistance. Stuff like that. And then for all the supplies and new stuff around the house—we all pitched in. Bobby brought home stuff from the nursery with his discount. Matt handled most of the paint, but everyone contributed something. Bill and Joe pitched in a little where they could, but they’re part-time at the golf course so they did a lot of the work. The boys haven’t had many nights out or friends over. They haven’t been spending their money on toys or car parts, I can tell you that. And we all worked real hard. We worked harder than we’ve ever worked. No wonder you walked out on us, Barbara Ann. You should’a done it years ago. I can’t believe we left all that on you.”
“Even I never got it that clean,” she said. “How in the world did you do it?”
“It was hell, honey, I’ll tell you that. It was like going to basic training all over again. Barbara Ann, are you coming back to us? If we promise to keep it up?”
“Yes, Mike, I can’t wait. But I’m going to finish the book with the girls and help close up Gabby’s house. Then I’ll be home.”
“How long is that going to take?”
“Ten more days. We’re closing up the house on Sunday night, August twenty-second. You and the boys will even be invited to our last big bash before we give up the halfway house for crazy women.”
“Ten days? Ten days?”
“It’s not that long. And I’ll be glad to go out for a drive with you before then,” she said, followed by a wicked laugh. “I think I’m going to miss that—our sneaky little sessions. It made me feel like a kid again.”
“My back is killing me.”
“Mike, really, I don’t know how you got it that clean and perfect. When I come home you’ll have to show me some of your secrets.”
“I’ve got quite a few things I want to show you when you get home,” he said. “And not much of it has to do with housework.” And he growled into the phone, sending shivers down her spine.
They never did tell her what really happened. They all tried to clean the house. Not one of them was stubborn about it. They wanted her back so bad they were sick inside—and not just for the work she did for them. They just wanted her home again. But they couldn’t get the house clean. Things kept going wrong. Laundry turned funny colors; soapy water left streaks; wiping down the walls took the paint off; cutting the yellowed, tangled grass only made the yard look like a dirt patch. That didn’t even speak to the food situation—and this was a household that loved food. Bobby cooked them a turkey one day and served it too rare—and they all got food poisoning. They ate out of boxes and bags until they were weak. They were dying, for one thing. And they were making no progress, for another, which meant they might never get Barbara Ann back.
Mike was telling one of the guys he worked with about his problems. Well, the guy was a retired Marine Master Sergeant. He’d spent years whipping barracks and grounds and young men into shape. He’d even done some time as a base housing-inspector. He knew things about white-glove inspections that Barbara Ann had never heard of. His name was Chuck Mackie and for years the boys would say, “Make it Mac,” for make it perfect.
The first two weeks of following Mac’s instructions almost killed them. But then they started to see results. Mac showed up at about eight every evening for another inspection and a new list of chores. On the weekends he worked them like dogs. He was having the best time he’d had since leaving the Marines. Pretty soon Mrs. Mackie came around to give some simple cooking instructions; they were going broke and getting sick on so much pizza. She gave them laundry tips and taught basic ironing. Mike was so proud of himself when he could finally iron a perfect shirt…in forty minutes. Then Andrea Mackie said, “Imagine this—first off, you’re going to get a grade on it. Someone’s going to say, ‘Can’t I even get a goddamn shirt for work around here?’ Second, there are two children hanging on your legs while a third is aiming a crayon at the wallpaper. Meanwhile, something’s boiling over on the stove, and the washing machine is walking. That should speed you up. Oh, and did I mention? Your period is also late.” Mike learned to get his perfect shirt down to seven minutes.
Perhaps it was cruel, but Mike, Matt, Bob, Joe and Bill wanted to keep their Basic Training in Housekeeping a secret. They wanted Barbara Ann to always believe that it was sheer, devoted love that had driven them to such excellence.
Because really, it was.
TWENTY-ONE
Elly was on the phone in her room, talking to London. Barbara Ann was at her word processor. Sable was with Ceola in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes for a lunch salad. Then the screaming started.
“Nooo! Nooo! Oh, God, Oh, God. Nooo!”
Barbara Ann got there first; she had been the closest. By the time Sable, Elly and finally Ceola arrived at the bathroom doorway, Barbara Ann was kneeling on the floor, holding Beth in her arms. Beth was sobbing into Barbara Ann’s shoulder. She was wearing a cotton T-shirt, sitting on a bath towel. Her shorts and panties were inside out on the floor in front of the toilet, soaked in blood. The toilet water was bloody; there was blood streaking the toilet seat and splattered inside the bowl. And Barbara Ann was saying, “It’s all right, it’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”
“Oh my God, the baby,” Sable whispered.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“Probably not,” Barbara Ann said. “Beth, we have to see how heavy the bleeding is so we know what to do. Beth? Honey?”
“What’s happened?”
“Barbara Ann, should we call the doctor?”
“What’s going on? What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s having—or just had—a miscarriage. Beth, can you tell me what happened?”
“I had a stomach ache—a hard pain. It felt like I had to go to the bathroom. It felt like I couldn’t make it to the toilet. There was a huge gush of blood out of me. Oh my God! The baby!”
“Beth, how many weeks along are you? Can you tell me?”
“I don’t know. Twelve or so. Twelve or fourteen.”
“Can you stand up, honey? Can we see how much you’re bleeding?”
Beth was shaking almost too hard to get to her feet, and had to use the sink counter for support. When she was standing, Barbara Ann wiped Beth’s bloody thighs with the towel. She wet a corner from the sink and washed away the bloodstains. “Do you feel that pain…or that urge to use the toilet anymore?” Barbara Ann asked.
“No. I mean, my tummy feels tender. Crampy. But not urgent.”
There was the merest trickle of blood running down the inside of Beth’s thigh. She asked Beth for the name of her doctor, then turned to the women in the doorway. “Sable, call Dr. Morlene’s office. Tell them that Beth is miscarrying—she may have lost it in the toilet. The bleeding was very heavy for a few minutes, but has slowed down to about that of a normal menstrual flow. Ask them where we should take her—office, emergency room, whatever. Elly, find Beth some panties, shorts and shoes. And go to my room and get a sanitary napkin out of my top drawer. Ceola, go to the kitchen and get me some kind of small container with a lid. A Tupperware bowl, maybe. And a spoon with holes in it.”
“What are you going to do?” Elly asked her.
“I’m going to clean Beth up, get her dressed to go to the doctor’s office or hospital, and then I’m going to find out if she lost anything in that mess or if it’s just blood. She’s going to need a D&C,
probably.”
“You’re going to dig around in that toilet for a fetus?” Elly asked, horrified.
“It’s what you do, Elly. Now go on. Let’s take care of our girl.” The women went off about their tasks and Barbara Ann turned back to Beth, who was holding herself up by leaning on the sink counter. Her weakness was from fear and shock, not blood loss. Barbara Ann knew all about this. It had happened to her once. After Billy. “Okay, honey,” she said, running water and wetting a washcloth. “Let’s get you cleaned up a little and put some clothes on. You have to go to the doctor.”
Beth went to the outpatient surgical center across the street from the hospital. No one would be left behind; Barbara Ann drove Beth, and Sable accompanied. Elly and Ceola followed a few minutes later in another car. The nurses who met them at the door were very calm and unhurried as Beth gingerly transferred herself from the car seat to a wheelchair. Barbara Ann presented one of them with a square Tupperware container holding a few impressive clots.
“Having some trouble?” one of the nurses asked.
“The baby,” she whimpered. “I think I’ve lost the baby….”
“Dr. Morlene will be here in just a few minutes to have a look. Let’s get you into an examining room. You’re going to be fine now.”
“My baby,” she wept.
“It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.”
All right? Sable thought. Didn’t they know how much a woman could want the baby she was carrying? Didn’t they have any idea that this was more than just a heavy period? This was a death in the family, for God’s sake! What did they mean, moving so slowly, being so friendly and sweet, and giving her that bullshit about it being all right?
The women waited for an hour. Then they were told that the doctor felt it necessary to perform a D&C and that Beth would have to stay there, lying down, for two to three hours before she could be taken home. But there were no complications and she was going to be fine. The women, the nurse said, might want to go out to lunch. Or perhaps they could go home and one of them could come back later to pick up Beth and drive her home.