4th Musketelle

19. Domestic Bliss

  Late afternoon, after finishing his final job for the day and grabbing a quick beer, Bert Nagy pulled his big, white pickup truck into his driveway and braked to a halt.

  Bert’s Landscaping and Tree Removal was painted on the flanks of the vehicle in bold typeface, along with the business phone number. A logo of a muscular arm wielding a chainsaw like a rapier festooned the doors. Beneath it ran the slogan: The bigger they come, better give us a call!

  Bert switched off the rumbling engine and sagged into the cracked vinyl seat.

  “Home at last,” he said.

  The truck was a rather down-at-heel affair, probably not the best advertisement for his business, but what the hell, it was paid for. With a few more contracts like the one at the Armstrongs, he could afford to buy a new truck.

  Yes, the Armstrongs ...

  Bert tried to blank out any thought of them. Did the events of this morning really happen, or had he just dreamed everything up? All day he’d been agitated, struggling with bizarre thoughts and emotions. He needed a long, hot shower and a few more cold ones before dinner to get feeling normal again.

  He got out of the cab to a chorus of murderous barks and snarls from the next door neighbors’ dog. Bert flinched. The damned brute looked ready to tear his leg off.

  “Nice to see you, too, buddy,” Bert said.

  He hefted the razor sharp machete he used to trim underbrush, wondering what it would be like to whack the animal’s skull in two. The dog quieted to a low, ominous growl. If the fence didn’t restrain the thing, there’d be a blood bath for sure.

  Bert glanced around the area with dismay, taking in his little frame house, the shabby roof that was crying out for replacement, the cracked walk – the neighbor’s overgrown lawn. This was Home Sweet Home?

  “Bunch of damned rednecks around here,” he muttered.

  He tossed the machete back into the cab and slammed the door. As he moved up the walkway, a piercing noise emerged from inside the house.

  “What the f – ”

  The lawn sprinkler suddenly came on, dousing him.

  “Damn!”

  He ran the last stretch to the porch and burst in through the door.

  A choking haze filled the house, along with the screech of a smoke alarm. His children, Judy and Ted, paused in their latest fight and looked toward him.

  Bert coughed furiously. “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s just the microwave,” Judy said, “but the fire’s out now.”

  Bert yanked open the smoke alarm and pulled the battery. Blessed silence ensued, except for an occasional yap from the dog next door.

  “Who turned on the damn lawn sprinkler?” he demanded.

  “Nobody, Dad,” Judy said.

  “You put it on the timer last week, remember?” Ted added.

  “Uh ... yeah, right,” Bert said lamely.

  He propped the front door and flung open the side windows to dispel the smoke.

  “We could have used the sprinkler in here a few minutes ago,” Judy said.

  Bert threw his baseball style cap onto his chair with resigned disgust.

  “Where’s your mother?” he said.

  “She took off hours ago,” Judy said.

  “Yeah, and she left directions to make dinner,” Ted said, “but Dumbo here messed things up, as usual.”

  He threw a couch pillow at Judy.

  “I did not!” Judy protested. “You’re the one who put the microwave on too high.”

  She threw the cushion back at Ted.

  “OK, enough already!” Bert roared. “Do I have to get out my belt?”

  Ted whispered conspiratorially to his sister: “Yeah, and it’s plenty long!”

  Judy giggled.

  “What was that?” Bert said.

  “Oh, nothing, Dad,” Judy said, “just Ted being a jerk again.”

  “Well ... go clean up the kitchen,” Bert said.

  The kids ran off into the kitchen. Bert sank into his reclining chair, crushing the baseball cap he’d forgotten was there. A massive headache was starting to take hold of him, and he rubbed his temples.

  From his position in his fake leather chair, he could see the kids rumbling around in the kitchen, cleaning up the place between punch exchanges. He shuddered at the thought of the mates they would attract – if they didn’t kill each other first.

  There certainly wasn’t much here to instill fatherly pride. Judy had just turned 13, an age when many girls were really starting to blossom. Instead, she looked like a prize fighter with a personality to match – pugnacious and loud. Ted was a male version, two years younger. Both of them were overweight, like their parents.

  If only Bert could find some room to maneuver; get his bearings in the world without so many crushing responsibilities! Then he could put the various aspects of his life in shape, including his weight problem. He knew that his extra pounds were a death sentence. Hadn’t his dad, also morbidly obese, keeled over from a stroke in his early 40’s?

  Ah, the Cayman Islands ...

  Bert reached for the newspaper stuffed into the side pocket of his recliner. He’d not had time to read it this morning. A story on the front page bore the heading:

  Big Tax Increase Coming for Small Businesses

  “Crap!” He tossed the paper aside.

  Through the open front door, he noticed his wife, Sally, coming up the walk to the accompaniment of friendly yips from the neighbor’s dog. The damn brute was actually glad to see her.

  My God, it’s true, Bert thought with sudden dismay. People do start to look like each other when they’ve been married too long.

  Though still fairly young and once an attractive woman, Sally had spread out over the years until she was nearly as obese as Bert himself. How the hell did things like this happen? How did the ‘girl of your dreams’ evolve from high school sweetheart to midlife ship wreck?

  Sally came through the front door. She looked boozed up and disheveled. Her short, reddish hair was frowsy. Their eyes met, but before either of them could say anything, the kids bounded in from the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mom,” Ted called.

  “Wait’ll you hear what Teddy did!” Judy chimed in.

  They stood before her like eager little troopers in a brat army. Sally gave them a mock, military style salute.

  “At ease kids!” she said.

  She glanced around the house, sniffing the still acrid air, and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to burn the house down?” she said.

  “It was her fault,” Ted whined.

  “No it wasn’t!” Judy shot back.

  Sally laughed coarsely, as if this were the most hilarious situation imaginable. Then she turned toward Bert.

  “You parked that wreck in the driveway again,” she said.

  “That ‘wreck’ pays our bills, in case you forgot,” Bert replied.

  “Oh – right,” Sally said.

  Bert got ponderously out of his chair.

  “You ‘wrecked’ your hat, Dad,” Judy said, pointing to the squashed Bert’s Landscape Service baseball cap.

  Ignoring this latest jibe, Bert advanced on Sally. He took a whiff of her noxious breath.

  “You smell like a distillery,” he said.

  “That’s my man for you,” Sally said, “the original class act.”

  The kids giggled. Bert turned furiously on them.

  “Go to your rooms!”

  The kids started to offer some lip, but the angry look on Bert’s face dissuaded them. They retreated to their respective rooms.

  Bert turned on Sally.

  “You’ve been to the casino again, haven’t you?” he said

  Sally gave a derisive laugh. “What of it?”

  “How much did you lose this time?”

  “Maybe if you brought home a better income, you wouldn’t have to worry so much about that,” Sally said.

  Bert looked toward the kids’ bedroom doors. T
ed was peaking out, but quickly ducked his head back in.

  “Come on,” Bert said..

  He took Sally’s arm and brought her into their own bedroom, closing the door behind them.

  “Keep your hands off me, Bert Nagy,” Sally protested.

  Bert released her arm.

  “Just keep it down, okay?” he said. “I don’t want the kids to hear.”

  “I’d say the kids are the least of your worries.”

  “What does that mean?” Bert demanded.

  Sally flopped down on the bed and stretched out on her back with mock luxuriousness.

  “Well ... The IRS, for instance.”

  Bert gulped, looked back toward to door.

  “You think I don’t know you’ve been hiding income?” Sally said. “And there’re those two illegal aliens you’ve been paying under the table.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “Who do you think keeps the books, you big dumb Polack?”

  “Don’t call me that!” Bert said. “I’m Hungarian American.”

  “Same difference, you big dumb Hunky.”

  Bert felt cold sweat rolling under his work clothes. His hands were clammy.

  “Please, Sally, be reasonable,” he said.

  Sally sat up on the bed and fixed Bert with a withering ‘if looks could kill’ glower.

  “You’d better learn to appreciate me more. That’s all I’ve got to say!”

  “Yeah ... okay, fine,” Bert said.

  He retreated from the room – suitably chastised. Sally flopped back down on the bed and burped. She waved a despairing arm at the ceiling, addressing the water stains residing there.

  “And to think I passed on Bill Holbrook – for this!”