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NO BOOGEYMEN jumped from behind the bushes when Fideaux and I raced to our front door; but once inside I turned on lights I didn't need, locked up extra tight, and poured myself a small brandy.
Curled up on the sofa, my companion at my feet, I longed to call my son, but I resisted. Garry would be consumed by whatever nineteen-year-olds did on vacation on Cape Cod, and I doubted that he would welcome an interruption from his mother.
Instead I scanned the living room for the book I was into, which made me notice that I had a phone message.
“Mom, give me a call, will you?” Chelsea requested with a hint of panic.
“What’s up?” I asked as soon as we connected.
“My mother-in-law is coming to visit.”
A relieved laugh burst out of me. “Without her husband?” An executive of some sort, all I knew for certain was that Chelsea’s father-in-law traveled for work.
“Seattle,” she explained. “Mom! What am I going to do with Marilyn?” Marilyn Alcott, not “Mother Alcott” or “Bobby’s mother,” or God forbid, “Mom,” which I hoped would forever refer only to me.
“Valley Forge? The Phillies? How should I know? You’ll be done school before she arrives, won’t you?”
“Yes, and unlike you, she loves shopping. I’m talking about where she’ll sleep. The guest room is stuffed with wedding presents and camping gear.”
“Want her to stay with me?”
Chelsea reminded me that I didn’t exactly live around the corner.
“Hotel?”
“Heavens no. Totally wrong message.”
“Sofa? Oh, right.” When I’d stretched out on it, their sectional slid apart and dumped me on the floor.
I finally caught my daughter’s drift. The top floor of the kids’ ninety-seven-year-old Victorian possessed two unused rooms. As I recall, they contained nothing but stale air, bat poop, and dust.
“How long do we have?”
“Ten days.”
“Pick a paint color yet?”
“No, but Marilyn likes blue.”
Tuesday wasn’t my scheduled day with Jack, and Chelsea’s school meeting wasn’t until two. We agreed to start early.
No longer lonely, I bent over and gave Fideaux a vigorous belly rub.
“Don’t they call bat poop guano, or something?” I asked the dog. “Maybe that’s only when they use it for fertilizer.
“Doesn’t matter. It won’t be fun to clean up even if we call it Chloe and buy it a skirt.”
***
FOR UNLOADING purposes I parked as close as possible to Chelsea and Bobby’s front door.
Glancing back, I caught sight of a large man in a disreputable bathrobe on Mrs. Zumstein’s porch. Something about him made me smile, so I watched as he yawned and ran a meaty hand through his straight, sandy hair. He reached down for the newspaper.
Oops. Nothing on under the robe.
Lucky he didn’t notice me. Indeed, his eyes were so puffed up, I wondered whether he’d be able to read the newspaper. A hangover maybe? Was that what Maisie Zumstein did to a person?
Not my problem. I set about trucking my shop vac and the other tools the kids probably wouldn’t have into the front foyer.
Chelsea shouted hello as she hammered down the stairs and rushed out the door. “Taking Bobby’s wallet to the train station. Have some coffee.”
I admired the new kitchen floor as if I hadn’t put it there. Then I realized that if I wanted coffee, I would have to make it.
When Chelsea returned, we sat at the breakfast bar.
“So who’s the Incredible Hulk next door?” I inquired after we had our day nailed down.
“Incredible Bulk’s more like it. Mrs. Zumstein’s grandson.”
“He her intended victim?”
“Victim?”
I explained about the weird behavior I’d observed, the falling objects, the strange popping noise, and the ensuing smell. The noose, if it had been a noose.
Chelsea shrugged. “I work, Mom. You tell me what’s going on. I scarcely know the people.”
“You must know something. Like why is the grandson here? Does he have a job?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s here because he doesn’t have a job.”
“There. Was that so hard?”
For mental exercise Chelsea clearly preferred music over speculation, because the first thing she set up on the third floor was a radio. Then came dust masks and trash bags, the shop vac, and hot sudsy water. Before long we both looked like chimney sweeps.
We showered then went to Burger King for lunch. Then Chelsea had that school meeting, so I volunteered to pick up the paint.
After taking it upstairs—two gallons of cornflower blue and white for the woodwork—I opted for a lazy half-hour in the kids’ backyard before facing the turnpike.
Fideaux flopped across my borrowed blanket as soon as I spread it on the grass. Scooching him over, I lay watching clouds through the trees and the sky beyond.
Completing the perfection, a beautiful male voice began singing Ol’ Man River. Had to be a recording, the voice was that professional, that moving. I closed my eyes and let the lyrics break my heart.
“No!” someone shouted from the opposite yard. “NO! Please don’t tell me...” Cissie Voight, distraught about something.
Rip often said I would dive into a pond to save a frog. “The fool who rushes in,” was another favorite.
This time I believed he would endorse my instinct. As Head of a school, he had encountered plenty of messy marriages. Surely he would agree that Cissie was up to her earlobes in pond water.
I stashed Fideaux back in the house then scurried around the hedge to tap on the Voight’s backdoor.
“Anybody home?” I called, discreetly in case the baby was asleep.
The screen door opened inside of three seconds.
“You're back,” Cissie exclaimed. "It must be mental telepathy." She wore a stained lavender t-shirt and denim shorts. Without makeup she looked about two.
“No telepathy,” I told her. “Just good ears.”
“You know anything about cable TV?”
I shrugged a tentative yes.
“Omigosh, where are my manners? Come in.”
The kitchen was in disarray again, but judging by the rubber gloves and the sink full of bubbles, Cissie had been trying to do something about it.
“What’s the problem?”
She gestured toward the small TV in the corner of the counter. “It comes on, but no programs.”
I unplugged the set briefly, but that didn’t work. I suggested she call the cable company.
Cissie squeezed her face between her hands. “They keep you on hold forever then ask you to do things I don’t understand.”
I began to suspect that she needed a backbone more than a soft-hearted volunteer, so I amended my offer. “How about you call the cable people, while I do the dishes. Deal?”
“I guess so. Thanks, Ms. B.”
She was still on with Technical Support when Caroline mewed for attention, so I set aside the last wet dish and hurried to rescue the child from her Pack N Play.
When laughter suddenly blared from the TV, Cissie swept back into the kitchen flushed with pride.
She had just relieved me of her squalling baby, when the backdoor squeaked open and closed with a slam.
Mr. Wonderful had come home early.