EIGHT

 

I swung open the front door. “What happened?”

“I was mugged by some hooligan.” She pushed me aside and clomped into the house. “I need twenty dollars,” she said. “Now.”

“What for?”

“To pay the cab driver. Not that he deserves a cent, given how long it took for him to show up.”

I glanced over her shoulder and saw a taxi idling at the curb. “Why didn’t Harriet drive you home?”

“She can’t drive.”

“Was she also hurt?”

“No, some Goody Two Shoes called the cops. When they showed up, they arrested Harriet for driving with a revoked license.”

I sent up a silent Halleluiah. Harriet Kleinhample was a menace on the road and had lost her license after her latest accident, the one that had resulted in the death of Lucille’s would-be assassin. However, the revocation hadn’t kept Harriet from getting behind the wheel after she’d recovered from her injuries, and unfortunately, it also wouldn’t stop her from driving again once she was released from jail. Harriet believed driving was her God-given right—or bestowed by whoever gives rights to godless commies.

“I’ll get my wallet,” I said. “You should put some ice on your cheek and eye.”

With a grunt, Lucille hobbled toward the dining room. I grabbed my wallet and a jacket and walked out to the cab. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nineteen seventy-five.”

I executed a virtual eyeroll. Had I handed Comrade Lucille a twenty-dollar bill, she would have given the cabbie a twenty-five-cent tip. So much for being a champion of the working class, Yet so typically Lucille. I gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill and four ones, thanked him, and returned to the house.

I found Lucille stretched out on her bed, an icepack held against her cheek, her eyes closed. Both legs of her emerald, orange, and purple plaid polyester pantsuit were ripped, her knees scraped. “Did you hit your head?”

“No, I didn’t hit my head.” She sounded like a petulant teenager. Strike that. My own teenagers have never behaved as belligerently as their grandmother.

“Then how did you get that bruise on your face?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but he grabbed my purse and walloped me across my face with it.”

“Didn’t the police offer to bring you to the hospital?”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’ll be fine once the swelling goes down.”

The swelling wasn’t going down. It had grown worse, and a shiner had sprouted around her eye. I bit my tongue, knowing any further suggestions on my part would be unwelcome. I was surprised she had taken my advice and grabbed an icepack from the freezer.

Instead, I changed the subject. “Why didn’t the police drive you home?”

She lowered the icepack, opened her good eye, and glared at me. “I refuse to accept charity from those people.”

“It’s not charity, Lucille. Our taxes pay for local law enforcement to protect and serve us.”

She responded with one of her classic harrumphs, closed her eye, and returned the icepack to her face. I had been dismissed. I gave up and left the room without offering to clean and bandage her knees.

When my friendly neighborhood crime fighting duo of Officers Harley and Fogarty arrived an hour later with Lucille’s purse, I learned more about the mugging.

“Looks like they grabbed her cash, credit cards, and ID before tossing her pocketbook in the nearest trash can,” said Harley. “Left her keys, though. At least you won’t need to change your locks.”

“She refused to file a report,” added Fogarty. “She really needs to do that, along with contacting the credit bureaus, canceling her credit cards, and contacting Motor Vehicle.”

“No need,” I said. “Lucille doesn’t have any credit cards, and she’s never had a driver’s license. As for the keys, she’s so paranoid about the government spying on her that she never carries any form of ID.”

Harley laughed. “We’ve already got a huge file on that rabblerouser. I’m sure the Feds do, too, given her latest antics, whether she carries ID or not.”

“You know that, and I know that,” I said, “but we also both know Lucille lives in a world of communist-inspired conspiracies and delusions.”

“You have any idea how much money she was carrying?” asked Fogarty.

“No more than a few dollars,” I said. “My mother-in-law may appear to be an easy mark, but the mugger struck out when he targeted her.”

Officer Harley then filled me in about Harriet. Along with locking her up, the police had impounded her latest VW minibus. “Turns out, the vehicle wasn’t registered.”

“No surprise there.” By my count, this was Harriet’s second vehicle purchased after losing her license this year. I didn’t want to know what sort of shady connections she had in the used car world. Were there commie car dealers who supplied vehicles to Bolsheviks, no questions asked?

At least the citizens of Westfield and the surrounding communities were a little safer on the roads—for now. At some point, a misguided judge would feel sorry for Harriet and order her release. It wouldn’t be the first time. Harriet could turn on the charm—or the waterworks—whenever it suited her.

And then she’d buy herself another VW minibus from a questionable dealer.

Mama arrived shortly after Harley and Fogarty departed, her arms laden with shopping bags from a day spending money at the mall. When she learned Lucille had returned, her reaction would have made her fellow Daughters of the American Revolution reach for their smelling salts.

~*~

As Cloris had predicted, the Trimedia server problems were not resolved by the end of the day nor the next morning. We were all instructed to work from home. Kim’s email indicated IT promised a fix by the end of the day. “I’m not holding my breath,” I said to Zack over breakfast. That’s what they said yesterday.”

“They should hire Tino,” he suggested.

“If Trimedia offered Tino the sun, the moon, and the stars, I doubt he’d accept.”

Zack grinned. “Good point.”

Tino Martinez, ex-special forces, tech genius, and hacker extraordinaire, had briefly worked as a bodyguard for Trimedia’s now disgraced and former CEO Alfred Gruenwald. I once thought Tino was out to kill me. I was wrong. He’s since saved my life on several occasions and become a good friend—in more ways than one—to both me and Zack.

His latest challenge has been to transform Ira’s spoiled brats into model citizens, for which he’s so far received mixed reviews. Unfortunately, we’ve learned even Tino’s superpowers have their limits.

With the boys having gone into school early to prepare for this evening’s annual science fair, and with both Mama and Lucille sleeping in this morning, Zack and I enjoyed a peaceful breakfast free of mother versus mother-in-law contentious bickering, a rare occurrence at Casa Pollack, no matter the meal. The Daughter of the American Revolution and the Daughter of the October Revolution could both fend for themselves whenever they decided to rise and shine.

“Time to start my workday,” I said, gathering my dirty dishes.

“Leave those,” said Zack. “I’ll clean up and join you once Jesse and his crew arrive.”

That deserved a kiss, after which I grabbed a jacket and headed for the apartment above the garage.

Our monthly staff meeting would take place in five days. Along with presenting a status report on other magazine issues in various stages of production, the editorial staff would plan the issue five months down the road. I needed to come up with a craft idea for that issue.

An hour later, after a research trip down the rabbit hole otherwise known as the Internet, I’d come up with plenty of ideas but none that sparked my creative juices.

If I couldn’t get excited about a project, I knew my readers wouldn’t, either. I had a devoted following among American Woman subscribers and those who routinely purchased our monthly issues at the supermarket checkout. They expected a certain level of design and functionality from the crafts I presented in each issue, but at the same time, the projects had to be both relatively easy to make and budget-friendly.

Zack still hadn’t joined me in the apartment, and I wondered what was keeping him. Since I’d wasted the last sixty minutes, I decided to take a break and find out. Perhaps I was trying too hard. A bit of procrastination and a cup of coffee might stimulate the creative side of my brain.

I walked into the kitchen to find Zack hard at work—sanding spackle. My heart executed a little pitter-pat at the image. Forget the HGTV twins from Canada or the former boy band pop star. My guy ran circles around them and could easily star in his own DIY show. I smiled and quirked an eyebrow. “Midlife crisis career change?”

“Jesse is short a guy this morning. Roscoe and Wendel had a blowout on Rt. 22 on their way here.”

“Are they okay?”

Zack shook his head. “Wendel is. He called from the hospital. Roscoe’s being admitted. Jesse ran over to the hospital to check on his condition and pick up Wendel. I decided to lend a hand to keep the job on schedule.”

“I hope Roscoe’s injuries aren’t too severe.”

“That makes all of us. Jesse said Roscoe’s wife is expecting their first child in a few months.”

Ever since Karl died suddenly and I discovered how he’d screwed me and our kids, I’ve fought to maintain a positive attitude, no matter how often I’d wanted to curl up into a ball of self-pity. Then I’d realize how lucky I am. Yes, I still have massive Karl-induced debt, and I’m stuck with the commie mother-in-law from Hades, but I have two great kids, and I now have Zack. We’re all healthy, and we’re not living out of a cardboard box on the street. I’m slowly digging my way out of the financial mess I inherited. Things could be worse. A lot worse. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be for Roscoe, his wife, and their soon-to-be new baby.

I left Zack to his sanding and walked into the dining room to make two cups of coffee. As Ralph kept an eye on me from his perch atop the china cabinet, I heard bickering coming from the other side of the house. Coward that I am, I worked as quietly and quickly as possible to avoid getting swept up in Mama and Lucille’s latest squabble.

“Let me know when you hear about Roscoe,” I said as I handed Zack a steaming mug.

“Will do.” He gave me a quick kiss. Then I slipped out of the house and headed back to the apartment before either Mama or Lucille ambushed me.

When Zack texted a short time later to say Jesse had returned, I raced to the house. Zack and Wendel turned as I entered the kitchen. “How’s Roscoe?” I asked.

“Lucky to be alive,” said Wendel. “I gotta give him props. When that tire blew, he fought with everything he had to maintain control, but a vehicle behind us couldn’t stop in time and clipped us. The truck flipped several times as it slid down an embankment, finally landing on the driver’s side. Roscoe’s got a concussion, a pierced lung, a compound fracture of his left leg, and a dislocated shoulder.” Wendel grimaced. “I walked away with only a few bruises.”

“Still, you should go home,” I said. “Your body has probably sustained more trauma than you realize.”

“That’s what Zack was trying to convince me,” he said. “But I’d rather get back to work than sit at home and think about Roscoe laid up in the hospital.”

“You’re going to be really sore tomorrow,” said Zack.

Wendel shrugged. “I was in combat. I’ve been through much worse.”

I heard Jesse on the phone in the dining room. “Is he speaking with Roscoe’s wife?”

Wendel shook his head. “Nah, some guy who stopped by yesterday looking for work. With Roscoe out for several weeks, Jesse’s now shorthanded. We’ve got multiple jobs running. He can’t afford to lose one of us even for a few days.”

“Weird how that works out,” said Zack. “One person’s misfortune becomes another person’s lucky break.”

From the dining room we heard Ralph ruffle his feathers, then offer up an appropriate Shakespearean quote. “And in this thought they find a kind of ease, bearing their own misfortunes on the back of such as have before endured the like.” He squawked once before adding, “Richard the Second. Act Five, Scene Five.”

~*~

A few hours later when I returned to the house to make lunch, the man I saw speaking with Jesse yesterday was hard at work in my kitchen, applying a second coat of spackling to the drywall. His arm muscles and abs strained the fabric of a black T-shirt that showcased a good deal more of his tiger neck tattoo than what I’d previously noticed.

He tipped his head and greeted me with, “Good afternoon, ma’am,” then introduced himself as Dennis Clancy. “But I go by Denny.”

I smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, Denny. You recently moved to the area?”

“That’s right, ma’am. Not much construction work going on in New Mexico. I heard New Jersey was booming with renos and teardowns and thought I’d give the northeast a shot.” He glanced out the window at the dreary day. An icy wind whipped around the yard, threatening the newly emerged spring flowers. “Can’t say I expected such cold weather the end of April, though.”

“Welcome to Spring in New Jersey. Come tomorrow, temperatures might soar into the eighties, then plummet into the thirties a day later. You never know this time of year.”

“I’m learning that.”

“Do you have a family you brought with you?”

“No, ma’am. Just me.”

“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy living in the Garden State. I promise, it will warm up and stay warm eventually, at which point everyone will complain about the heat and humidity.”

He laughed as I moved into the dining room and grabbed a few sandwich fixings from the refrigerator to bring back to the apartment.

I hadn’t heard any further verbal sparring coming from the bedroom area, but I wasn’t taking any chances. My goal was to run in and out before either Mama or Lucille became aware of my presence.

I’d nearly made my escape when my mother came up behind me. “What are you doing home? And why didn’t you tell me you were here?” she demanded.

I inhaled a deep breath, slowly exhaling before turning around to face her. “I’m working from home today, Mama. We’re having computer problems at work.”

She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

“Wonderful?”

“We can spend the afternoon together, do lunch and a bit of shopping.” She eyed the bread, condiments, cheese, and deli meats in my arm. “Put those away and grab your coat and purse.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Shopping? Didn’t you clean the stores out yesterday?”

“Really, Anastasia! Sarcasm is not becoming.”

“I told you I’m working, Mama.”

“Who’s going to know if you take a few hours off?”

“My editorial director when I don’t meet my deadline.”

She dismissed my excuse with a wave of her hand. “I won’t tell if you don’t. You can finish up this evening if necessary.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I can’t. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re having dinner with Shane and Sophie this evening, then going to the science fair at the high school. Both Alex and Nick have exhibits, as does Sophie.”

Mama blushed. “I did forget. I’m sorry. Thanks for reminding me.” Then she perked up, clapped her hands together again, and said, “What a perfect opportunity to wear the new dress I bought yesterday.”

“Just make sure you’re ready to leave by five o’clock.”

“Why so early?”

“The science fair opens at seven and runs until nine-thirty.”

“Then what’s the rush?”

“The kids need to arrive by six-thirty to set up. Shane is serving an early dinner so they can eat before they have to leave.”

“I’ll remember, dear.”

“Good.” Cradling the lunch items against my chest, I carefully leaned toward her and pecked her cheek. “I’m going back to work. I’ll see you later.” With that I pivoted and darted into the kitchen and out the back door.