Madam Of The House

She wasn’t about to bust his bubble.

Tiny beads of sweat formed on Ed’s upper lip. He shook his head. “I can’t. I have a repo contract with the bank.”

“It was a great lap dance,” she said, pooching out her lower lip and thrusting a hip toward him.

“Lady—”

“Please, Ed.” She reached out and touched the collar of his blue work shirt lightly. Beseechingly. “I’m having a really, really bad week.”

Dear God, I’ll see you in confession on Sunday. I swear. Until then, just one more little favor?

Ed’s face softened. Was it possible he’d been influenced by the Supreme Being? Or was he just hypnotized by her breasts?

“I promise I’ll take care of this next week,” she said in a whispery voice.

Ed shook his head, but ripped the work order off the clipboard. “I guess I could misplace the paperwork for a little while. But if the bank doesn’t cancel the order, I’ll be back.”

“Of course. Oh, wow. Thank you so much.”

“Right.”

He bent down to unhook the winch, giving Cecilia an eyeful of that special cleavage only overweight service men seemed to possess.

That reminded her. She had a rump roast in the freezer she wanted to thaw.

CECILIA SQUEEZED ONTO a bench in the sauna at the Boxwood Country Club Fitness Center, hoping to sweat out the remnants of alcohol and nicotine from the night before.

The place was filled to busting with women attempting to fight the ravages of age by any means possible. Physical, chemical, surgical—anything to stave off the dreaded sags and bags of middle age.

She stretched out her legs, exhausted from almost an hour on the treadmill, which reminded her of her life right now. Lots of effort to get absolutely nowhere.

The door to the sauna opened and an aerobicized woman with short, bottle-blond hair entered, wrapped in one of the blue-and-white-striped club towels.

“Hey, Marjorie.”

Marjorie Almswhite, one of the wealthier women who frequented the club, was a widow with a wicked sense of humor and an eye for young men.

“Hey, Cecilia. Were you spinning?”

“No, just the treadmill today.”

“Too bad. Kevin was teaching the spinning class.”

The heat seemed to go up a few degrees in the sauna, as all the women audibly sighed.

Kevin Trawler, one of the fitness instructors at the club, wasn’t what you’d call classically handsome. But he had a certain naive charm and the tightest butt Cecilia had ever seen. He was also about half the age of most of the women who frequented his classes.

“I know,” Cecilia said. “I couldn’t get in. The class was filled.”

“Early bird gets the worm,” said Gretchen Stevens in a smug, singsong voice.

“Are you?” Marjorie asked.

“Am I what?”

“Getting the worm?”

They all laughed.

“As a matter of fact,” Gretchen said defensively, “I caught Kevin looking at my boobs today during class.”

“Really?” said Marjorie. “Are you sure he wasn’t looking at your belly button? They’re in the same general area these days.”

Gretchen pulled her towel tight around her and huffed out of the sauna, slamming the door behind her.

Some of the women snickered.

Cecilia shook her head. “Getting the worm…”

Marjorie sighed. “Honey, it’s been so long since I got a worm like that, I wouldn’t remember what to do with it.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to get a worm like that,” said Betsy Gardner, the club’s resident airhead.

“At the bait shop,” Marjorie returned.

“Don’t you mean the jail-bait shop?” said Cecilia.

“What? You don’t approve?” Marjorie said.

Cecilia shrugged. “Far be it from me to ruin your fishing fantasies. I just think I’d prefer someone a little more…mature.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire, her mind whispered, as the memory of Jake Eamon’s hands on her shoulders pulsed like a subliminal message through her brain.

She shifted uncomfortably. It was getting way too hot in that sauna.

“Who wants an old worm when you can have a nice young one?” Marjorie said.

Betsy leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. “I hate to break it to you Marjie, but the only way you’re getting a nice young one is if you pay for it.”

Marjorie shrugged. “Hey, if I knew of a good bait shop around here, I’d shell out in a second.”

By the silence in the sauna, Cecilia suspected they were all thinking the same thing.

Too bad it wasn’t that easy.

“Let’s face it,” Betsy said gloomily. “None of us is going fishing anytime soon.”

CECILIA MADE a quick stop at the Shop ’n Bag on her way to the turnpike. She’d run out of a couple of things, including ibuprofen, which she desperately needed at the moment, both for her hangover and a raging case of cramps. She also wanted to pick up some of Brian’s favorite snacks for the car ride.

She trudged through the store, studiously avoiding the customer service counter and the cigarettes, loading her basket with over-the-counter products she hoped would stave off the symptoms of various ailments she’d been cultivating. Tension headaches from work. Corns from the absurd high heels she’d become addicted to. Pulled muscles from the gym. Heartburn from Ben.

She picked up a bag of salted pumpkin seeds and some granola bars for Brian, and snagged a giant bag of M&M’s for herself. Chocolate had powerful healing properties.

At the checkout, she plunked her basket on the conveyor belt and dug through her purse for her VIP card. She held it out to the checker, a young, all-American-type guy with a mop of blond hair, who completely failed to notice she was there.

That never would have happened five years ago.

Okay, maybe it would have happened five years ago. But definitely not ten years ago.

“So what’re you gonna do?” said the checker to the bagger, another frat-boy type. Both wore Temple University sweatshirts.

“I don’t know,” said the bagger. “I can just about afford beer with what I make here. Tuition? Forget it. I’m going to have to take next semester off.”

“Excuse me…” Cecilia waved her card at the checker.

Ignored again.

“But you’re supposed to graduate in May, dude,” the checker said.

The bagger shrugged. “What can I do? I already have so many loans out, I’m gonna be freakin’ forty by the time I pay them off.”

“Hey!” Cecilia said.

The boys finally looked at her.

“Forty isn’t that old.”

The checker’s ears turned red. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am,’” she muttered under her breath.

The checker unloaded the stuff from her basket and ran it over the scanner.

“Gimme those,” she said, grabbing the M&M’s out of the bagger’s hand and opening them with her teeth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma—” He clammed up.

The checker scanned the box of tampons she’d picked up, and a knowing look passed between the two guys.

She pointed at the bagger. “Oh, you think I’m just a hormonal old lady, huh? I’ll have you know, we old ladies work hard to maintain ourselves. Do you know how many pints of Ben & Jerry’s I’ve passed up for my butt’s sake? Do you know how many miles I’ve logged on the treadmill?”

The bagger shook his head. “No, uh…miss?”

She gave them both a scathing look. “You owe me for that hard work. You, and every other man on the planet. So you better not ever call anyone under eighty ‘ma’am’ again.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And one more thing.” They looked at her the way men should always look at women—both fearful and expectant. She leaned in. “You better have the decency to watch my ass when I’m walking away.”

CHAPTER 5

Whatever you do, don’t let yourself get backed into a corner.

In the half hour it took to reach the top of the winding hill leading up to the Catalina School, Cecilia had eaten half the bag of M&M’s, added up everything and everyone she owed in her head and chewed her thumbnail down to a bloody nub.

She found a parking spot in the circle outside the boys’ dorm and climbed the wide, stone steps to the door, admiring as she did every weekend the placid beauty of the place. No wonder Brian loved it here.

The dorm rested on the crest of the hill, which overlooked a sprawling formal garden arranged on tiers, meticulously maintained since the school opened in the late nineteenth century.

The dorm was swarming with excited parents picking up their kids for the weekend. Most families lived too far away for the weekly visits Cecilia was able to make, so the activity was unusual.

When Cecilia checked in at the desk, a tall, brittle-looking man she didn’t recognize greeted her.

“You are here to pick up…?”

“Brian Katz. Room 101.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Katz.”

She didn’t care for his tone.

“I’m Victor Newhouse, the new director of student living.”

“A pleasure,” she said, even though it definitely wasn’t. “May I go up to Brian’s room?”

“Just a moment, please. Wait right here.”

He disappeared into the office behind the desk, and closed the door.

Cecilia leaned up against the desk and watched the bustling in the lobby for a while. She checked her watch. Six minutes.

“Hello?” She called.

Victor emerged from the back room. “Sorry. I had to make a call.”

“I see. May I go get my son now?”

“In just a moment.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Is something wrong? Is Brian okay?”

“Of course, of course. We…”

The dorm door pushed open, and suddenly it was clear what she’d been waiting for. Or rather, who.

Melvin Weber, the school’s finance director, hurried in, his thin blond comb-over flapping up in the gust created by the door’s closing.

Cecilia steeled herself.

“Mrs. Katz, I’m so glad I caught you.”

That was exactly how she felt. Caught. Trapped. By the look on Melvin’s face, he was moving in for the kill, and she couldn’t even chew her leg off to get away.

“Mr. Weber, how nice to see you again,” she said, shifting into full bitch-queen mode. If she couldn’t get away, maybe she could bully him into submission. “I’ve come to pick up Brian, and I’m in rather a hurry. If you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Katz. But I can’t let you go until we discuss your outstanding financial obligation to the Catalina School.”

“Outstanding…? I’m afraid I don’t know to what you are referring.” She did her best imitation of her fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Wickett, who was largely regarded as the meanest teacher in the state of Pennsylvania and was rumored to have been created from a block of ice.

The Mrs. Wickett thing was ineffective in the face of Melvin Weber’s crusade.

The finance director patted his comb-over back into place. “Brian’s fall tuition, Mrs. Katz. We’ve attempted to contact you on numerous occasions. Your check bounced.”

Cecilia’s stomach dropped. Her gaze slid sideways to Victor Newhouse, who looked as if he were wishing for a bucket of popcorn and a box of Junior Mints to go with the show.

“Mr. Newhouse, would you kindly excuse us?” she said.

Newhouse looked at Weber, and Weber nodded. Newhouse looked crestfallen. “Of course. I’ll just wait in the office.”

“Perhaps you’d be so kind as to go get my son for me, so we can be on our way without further delay.”

He hesitated.

“Are you holding my son hostage, Mr. Newhouse? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then, will you please go get him?”

Weber nodded to Newhouse.

“Sure. Of course.” Newhouse came around the desk and headed up the hall, dragging his feet, clearly hoping to hear the end of the conversation.

Cecilia brushed an errant curl from her forehead. “Mr. Weber, if payment hasn’t reached you, I do apologize. We’ve been having a bit of trouble with our bank accounts, a snafu with account numbers or something, and I asked my husband to handle this matter. However, as you might know, we are estranged, and it’s a bit of a messy situation. I assure you that I will send another check first thing on Tuesday.”

Weber’s lips formed a tight line. “See that you do, Mrs. Katz. I know how much effort you put into getting your son admitted to the Catalina School. It would be a shame if we had to release him.”

AN HOUR LATER, with Brian listening to his MP3 player and munching pumpkin seeds in the back of the Cayenne, Cecilia ate the remainder of the M&M’s and chewed the rest of her fingernails down to bloody stumps.

What in the hell was she going to do?

This was definitely not the weekend to quit smoking.

She glanced at her son in the rearview mirror. He looked more relaxed, happier, than she’d seen him in a long time.

She simply could not take him out of Catalina.

But where was she going to get the tuition money? She’d been playing musical payments with all of her bills since March, trying to make her commission checks stretch farther than her Aunt Theresa’s girdles.

The money just wasn’t there.

Her mind flooded with thoughts of torturing Ben. Nothing too severe. Maybe just extracting one of his kidneys with a rusty lawnmower blade. As a bonus she might be able to sell it on eBay.

She counted to ten and cleared her mind. She’d handled tougher situations. There had to be a way to come up with some quick cash.

She’d already taken two ten-thousand-dollar advances on her commission from Belkin-Frye. She couldn’t ask for any more, especially now that Monty was gone.

She’d sold off all the antiques in the house that were worth anything months ago, so that was a dead end. She’d gotten advances on her credit cards and a second mortgage on their home, going into more debt to pay debt.

She’d cashed in the retirement account from her first job, selling pharmaceuticals for a big New Jersey drug company. The penalties had killed her, and she’d lost her matching funds, but she’d been desperate.

“Mom, can we get a puppy?” Brian called to her from the back seat. “Ethan has a puppy.”

She smiled. “Not right now, buddy. Puppies are a big responsibility. They take a lot of time.” And a lot of money.

She glanced at Brian in the rearview. He was frowning. “But Ethan has a puppy.”

“I’m sorry, Brian. But we just can’t do it right now.”

“But Ethan has a puppy.”

“Yes. Ethan’s mother is home all the time.”

“Why aren’t you home all the time?”

“Because I work, honey. You know that.”

“You work a lot.”

“Not enough these days,” she said, mostly to herself. She sighed. “If we got a puppy, wouldn’t you like to be here with it? Maybe we’ll get one when you come home for the summer.”

He stared out the window.

Brian wasn’t good with waiting. Didn’t understand the concept, really. To him, anything that wasn’t happening in the present wasn’t happening at all. When he was younger, he used to throw the most awful tantrums, screaming and thrashing when he couldn’t have something the minute he wanted it.

Ben, and many of their family members, had seen it as Brian having been spoiled. But Cecilia suspected it was something different.

It was as if her son had no concept of time. He didn’t understand “soon” or “tomorrow” or “later,” or any of the other words that could give him hope. If he wanted a toy or a book or a snack, these words meant nothing. While other children heard promise in these words, Brian only seemed confused and dejected by them.

In the back seat, Brian started rocking.

Cecilia resisted the urge to drive straight to the pet store. A puppy wouldn’t fix this. Wouldn’t fix him.

Experience told her that Brian would soon move on to something else, and that his disappointments would be many, over the weekend. But thankfully none of them would last too long.

A few minutes later he said, “Did you know there are 512 M&M’s in a one-pound bag?”

“But this is…was…a two-pound bag,” she said. “How many were in this one?”

Brian looked out the window for a moment, and said, “One thousand and twenty-four.”

She smiled and said, “Very good, honey!”

Meanwhile, she was trying to calculate how much time she’d have to log on the stationary bike to burn off the calories in 1024 M&M’s.

That was one equation she wasn’t eager to solve.

The phone was ringing when they walked into the house. Cecilia picked up the cordless in the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Cece, it’s me.”

“Dannie?”

“Yeah. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Okay. What’s going on?”

“I need you to—” Cecilia heard screaming in the background. “Wait a second…”

Cecilia walked back into the hallway, half listening to Dannie yell at Richard for stuffing a waffle into the DVD player.

Brian stood just inside the door, quiet and unmoving, and for a nanosecond—a dark, regretful nanosecond—she wished Brian would put a waffle in the DVD player, just once.

She wished he would laugh and play baseball with the neighborhood kids and hug her spontaneously.

She held her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “It’s okay, honey. You can go up to your room if you want.” She gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder and picked up his small suitcase, following him up the stairs.

“All right. I’m back.” Dannie sounded breathless.

Then again, Dannie always sounded breathless.

“What do you need?” Cecilia asked.

“I need someone to take Quincy for a couple of days.”

“Quincy?” Cecilia ran through Dannie’s kids names in her mind. Quincy wasn’t there. “Who’s Quincy?”

“My dog.”

Before Cecilia could say anything, Dannie rushed on.

“I’ve got to go out of town. It’s an emergency. My mother-in-law is going to take the kids, but she’s allergic to the dog. Or so she says.”

“I don’t know—”

“Please, Cece. You’ve always been a dog lover. Quincy is great. You’ll adore him!”

“I’ll adore him, huh?”

“Absolutely. And you know I wouldn’t ask unless it was an emergency.”

Cecilia thought about Brian asking for a puppy. Maybe this would be a good way to see how he would handle an animal in the house.

“For a couple of days?” Cecilia said.

“Right. Two, maybe three, tops.”

“Okay. What the hell. Ben’s coming over for dinner and he hates dogs. Besides, I’ll be home most of the weekend with Brian. Bring him over.”

“Great! Thank you so much. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

Cecilia left Brian alone in his room to get reacquainted with his things—which remained exactly as he had left them a month and a half ago when he’d gone off to school—and went back downstairs.

She dialed Ben’s mother’s number.

When Ben answered, she said, “Well? Are you coming over?”

“Why? Was I supposed to?”

She counted to ten under her breath. “Yes, you were supposed to. I’m making a roast for dinner. Brian’s here.”

“Brian’s there?”

“Yes, he is. I told you two weeks ago I was bringing him home for the long weekend.”

“Oh, right. Great. Okay, I’ll be over in a little while.”

BY SIX O’CLOCK, it became painfully apparent Ben wasn’t coming.

More angry than upset now, Cecilia went out onto the deck, wishing to God she hadn’t quit smoking, and checked the roast she’d been cooking on the grill.

When the weather was mild, she cooked everything on the grill. Pizza. Turkey breasts. Casseroles. Chili. In a few weeks, though, it would be too cold. She always got just a tiny bit depressed when she had to move her base of operations back to the kitchen.

She loved hanging out on the deck in her bare feet, drinking a beer or maybe a Margarita, watching the sun set. Sometimes she would imagine she was going to leave all this stress behind and move to some tropical island, where she would whip up spectacular meals in coconut shells over a fire pit, and spend her life tanned, relaxed and slightly tipsy.

She and Brian would take long walks on the beach, looking for shells. She’d make necklaces out of them, and they’d sell them on the beach. Or maybe she could braid hair.

No. She’d be terrible at that.

She’d once tried to braid Grace’s hair for school pictures, and Grace had ended up looking like an insane Pippi Long-stocking. People probably wouldn’t pay to look like that.

She daydreamed about beaches and Jake and cigarettes, and then about ways to dispose of Ben’s body. And then the doorbell rang.

Cecilia made her way through the house to the front door.

Dannie stood on the step, a twin on each hip, little Betsy clinging to her skirt, Richard running circles in the yard and a Shetland pony on a leash trampling the yellow corydalis in the bed beside the door.

“Hi,” Dannie said. “Are you ready for Quincy?”