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Training at Mega Research Company consisted of thirty minutes with roughly twenty dedicated, market research worker bees, in remote office space at the mall. Jennifer went over the script for the newest products for research––a hemorrhoid cream and diapers. She peppered her presentation with admonitions, “Approach mall shoppers with a smile!”
“The questions are for their benefit,” she said. “You are doing them a favor! We are all professionals!” she trilled in a high-pitched voice, impressive with her height, red hair and the passion of a religious zealot. “But, don’t linger in front of stores. The owners don’t like that! Come back when you’ve finished two surveys and we’ll go from there.”
I gritted my teeth and contemplated asking for age and household income, then tactfully inquiring about hemorrhoids. With clipboards in hand, wearing plastic, recycled nametags, all of the trainees were sent to the mall for a test run.
There were rumblings from a few of the people and a couple of twenty-somethings––young men––dropped their materials at the desk on the way out. “This bites,” they said, and roared with laughter, slapping each other on the shoulder as they left the pack of newly-minted market surveyors.
I gulped, set my chin, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself this was temporary. “I can do this.” I viewed my paperwork and saw the diaper survey. It was a stroke of luck.
I considered my victims––er subjects––as I scrutinized the foot traffic in the mall. I lingered outside the food court, anticipating that people who were full would be more willing to participate. I gave myself a pep talk, trying to convince myself that talking to people would be a welcome diversion from worrying about getting my house sold. Or, trying to solve the mystery of how and why a body had been left in my house.
A smile pasted on my face, I approached two young women with three children between them. One woman had a baby in a carrier facing her chest and midsection. Her baby was sleeping, and she pushed another child in a stroller, who sat up, wide-eyed. The other woman had a toddler, snuggled in a blanket, asleep in another pram. They ambled in tandem, deep in conversation. The woman wearing the papoose-style, baby carrier, idly stroked the child’s head as they left an Asian fast-food eatery.
“Excuse me,” I approached the young women. “Could I have a few minutes of your time? I’d like to ask a few questions about cloth and disposable diapers.” I pointed to the nametag from the research company pinned to my blazer that proved my legitimacy.
“Sure,” they said, in unison. “I don’t use anything except cloth diapers,” one volunteered. “I don’t want to gum up our landfills and wreck our planet.”
“But you use those plastic underwear pants over the diapers, so they don’t leak,” the other woman protested. “How is that any better?”
I decided I had the advantage of maturity and a change of topic was in order. “Say, you gals live around here?” Pausing briefly, I asked, “Have you heard anything about bodies left in vacant houses?” I couldn’t resist at least one question. Besides, it would be good community outreach to see if they’d heard anything. If word was out about the events, it could affect my home value. Okay, I was obsessed.
“Oh no! That’s terrible!” they answered in unison, visibly alarmed.
“Oh, it’s probably a rumor,” I said quickly. “Sorry. No worries.” I smiled to reassure the women.
“Oh, okay,” the woman carrying the baby said. “We live here because we want a safe neighborhood for our kids.”
“I’m sure it’s safe. Probably idle chatter.” Silently, I cursed my big mouth. “How about taking my survey so manufacturers can develop an eco-friendly product?” I had seen the word, “eco-friendly,” all over and was aching to use it.
With that, the women answered every question and offered opinions on everything diaper-related. When I wrapped up the twenty-minute survey, the woman holding the baby said, “Gee, this was fun! We should do more of these.”
“Thank you for your input,” I said. I really meant it. News of the bodies hadn’t reached the local mainstream, home-buying population. I hoped I hadn’t started any gossip.
The other woman piped in, “Are you here often? No one ever asks us what we think about products.” She laughed. Startled by the noise, the baby who’d slept through the survey let out a deafening wail. Hurriedly, I let them get on their way.
I was ecstatic that I had finished two surveys and I could take them to the research office for Jennifer, the micro-manager, to review. Even better, neither woman had heard about the bodies. I could market my house, safe in the knowledge that not everyone had heard about the dead body mystery. Maybe, this mess could be solved without a lot of public scrutiny.
Jennifer sat at the front desk doing arm exercises, her long auburn hair pulled back from her face. She paused from flexing her biceps and glanced at her watch as I approached. She beheld me warily, and asked, “Back so soon?”
“I’ve got the first surveys you wanted?” I formed the statement as a question, thinking from her reaction, I misunderstood the directions.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s see. Two surveys!”
As she reviewed my responses to the surveys, she beamed and commented, “This is great! I knew you were a market research professional the moment I saw you! Good job!” I felt myself relax, thinking, yeah, this is what I should be doing. Maybe Jennifer is right; this is my calling.
“You can finish out tonight and work Friday night. I’ll put you on a different survey on Saturday. You’re a rock star!” Her excitement was bubbling over.
I felt my life drifting away from me. My feet hurt, but I thought about what I had scheduled for tomorrow and Saturday—nothing, and dead bodies kept popping up in my neighborhood, so I said, “Sure, Jennifer.” I could fit in my real job, home-rehab specialist, around consumer research at the mall.
I finished out the night, stopping young mothers and couples with children in tow. Most seemed eager to give any input on diapers and child-rearing. With the exception of a couple of young children who screamed when I approached their parents, I completed what Jennifer called a “record number of surveys.” I didn’t take the screaming toddlers to heart. After all, there were times I wanted to scream at my appearance too.
I learned my lesson about asking people if they’d heard anything about the dead bodies. If they didn’t know, I didn’t want to broach the topic.
I poured myself into my car a little after nine o’clock that night. My feet were sore with blisters on the back of each heel. Grateful to be home, I greeted Boots with a pat. He sat on his haunches and watched me with a look of disdain.
“I was out making money, you ungrateful creature.”
The cat glared at me and stalked away, his tail in the air. His dish was empty. I kicked off my shoes and went to the cabinet for kitty chow. I grabbed a can of food and stopped, when I caught a whiff of lilacs.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I dropped the can and went to the slider. It was open. The scent was from Mrs. Gilman’s bushes, next to her patio. My screen was closed. I took a quick glance outside, and threw the door shut, satisfied when it went “clunk.” I locked it, took a deep breath, and looked around. The clutter on the kitchen table was the same as when I left.
Boots was interested in the chow on the counter and watched me. I grabbed the tin, opened it and scooped the food into his dish. “I must have forgotten to shut the door,” I said, and filled his water bowl.
My nerves still on edge, I grabbed a hammer from the kitchen junk/tool drawer as a weapon and stalked through the townhouse.
The living room and my bedroom were undisturbed. I looked at the stack of boxes in the second bedroom, frowned at the mess and closed the door.
Back in my room, I stashed the hammer in my bedside stand drawer, slipped out of my clothes, put on jammies, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and sank into bed. Sleeping fitfully, I tossed and turned through the night, my mind reliving Jennifer, surveys, and dead bodies; my leg muscles aching.
On the way to the coffeepot the following morning, startled by movement on the sofa, I stopped and shrieked, “Eddy! Eddy, how did you get in here?” I caught my breath as I recognized the shape on my sofa.
Eddy was unfazed by my screams. Grinning with his lazy sleepy, sexy-smoldering attitude, he crooned, “Hey, wifey. You left the patio door open. You can’t be doing that. Anybody can just come in. And, you gotta clean out the other bedroom,” he added smirking.
I stared at Eddy. He was tall and dark-haired with enough body fat and freckles that added up to movie star handsome. Combined with his easy charm, he could make you feel like you were the most important woman in the universe. It was a combustible combination.
“You hid in the spare bedroom!” Flabbergasted, my voice ratcheted up a full decibel. “I am not your wifey!” I yelled. “You need to leave, now!”
“Easy, take it easy. I fell asleep waiting for you.” Eddy grinned, enjoying my anger. Another part and parcel of why we divorced.
In high school, I saw Eddy’s laid-back approach to my temper as being positive. He could joke and cajole me out of a sour mood. I learned during the course of our short marriage, his kidding and sweet-talking fueled my anger. My temper gave Eddy a license to go out and do as he might want.
I gave up on Eddy being a faithful mate. I did, however, find him useful on occasion. After Jake died, we developed a mutually beneficial friendship. If I needed someone to move something heavy, I could call on Eddy. He seemed happy with lunch or dinner as payment. I tried not to use his shoulder to cry on, because Eddy, being Eddy, thought it could lead to more.
I wracked my brain trying to recall what favor I’d asked. He gazed at me, sprawled on the sofa, his sparkling brown eyes fringed with long lashes.
“I got lonely,” he said. “I miss you.”
Suddenly, it clicked. “Lola threw you out,” I snapped. “Probably, for the same reasons I kicked you to the curb!”
“You women,” Eddy said with mock exasperation, a smile playing on his lips.
“Get out, Eddy,” I warned him.
He tossed aside the afghan, weary of the game, and sat up. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and ran his hands through sleep-tousled hair, and asked, “Can I have coffee, please?” The years had been kind to Eddy. We were the same age, and he looked the same as the day we married, or the day we divorced.
He had slept in his briefs and tee shirt. He found his faded blue jeans and shirt discarded in a heap on a chair, and dressed. Despite his earlier mockery, he appeared vulnerable. I weakened, feeling a smidge of what we had had early on.
“One cup, and you’re out of here,” I snapped, steeling myself against a tide of sympathy.
“Thanks.” Eddy grinned again. He got up, stretching like a big cat as he went into the bathroom. The sound of the bathroom water traveled through the agape door while I made an extra strong pot of my favorite coffee.
Some time ago, I’d decided after another stretch of austerity, life was too short to drink bad coffee. It was my one luxury.
I opened the blinds and peered out. Mrs. Gilman was on her patio, digging in her flower pots. She wore a floppy gardening hat, cotton gloves, and a hoodie and sweat pants outfit. Her broad-brimmed straw hat sported a blue flower matching the color of her clothing. Large, tortoise shell-colored, sunglasses shaded her eyes, as she filled containers from a flat of flowers on her table.
I waved when she looked towards my window. She began to raise her arm in greeting, then her body stiffened. Behind me, I heard Eddy opening a cupboard door and taking a mug for the fresh java. She pursed her lips and twisted her back to me. With renewed vigor, she potted yellow pansies.
It was eight o’clock in the morning. Mrs. Gilman was offended by the sight of me in pajamas, and likely saw Eddy from her position at the table.
“Believe me, it isn’t what you think, Mrs. Gilman.”
“Huh?” Eddy asked, grinning. He came up beside me, throwing one arm around my shoulders, while gripping his mug in the other. Giving a sidewise glance, he squeezed me and kissed my forehead.
“Nothing,” I said, exasperated, pushing him away. “How about a to-go cup? I have to get to work.”
“All right, all right,” he protested, while I shoved him towards the door, “I’m going. I’m going.”
I showered, threw on my work attire of black blazer, slacks, and a blouse. I did makeup and hair in record time for another shift at the mall, double checking the latch on the patio slider before leaving.